Out of the Dark
by Francis Kerst
Summary: In the beginning, when CI5 was just a still not well defined project in Cowley's mind, an improbable meeting between the former MI5 officer and a lost soldier of an obscure African war is going to change both men's life for ever. Warning: Preslash B/C .
1. Chapter 1

**Out of the Dark**

**Chapter One**

He looked so young. Major George Cowley bent over the hospital bed where the boy was lying, still unconscious after the surgery. Freshly shaved and cleaned, eyes closed on some peaceful dream, he had nothing in common any more with the human wretch Cowley had rescued from the rebels' jail two days ago. He had not noticed then the form on the cot, in the darkest corner of the room, and could have missed him completely if it had not been for the sound of raspy breathing coming from that area and the weary gesture of MacLaren pointing to his cell mate.

Then he had seen the man; more a boy than a man, in spite of the nascent beard shadowing his face. He had taken a moment to consider the lean, athletic body spread very still and defenceless in front of him. Save for a dirty rag loosely wrapped around the hips and a blood soaked band circling his head, he was naked. There also was a nasty machete wound left untended, hardly closed up, festering on his right shoulder. The rest of the exposed flesh was covered in bruises, more markedly on belly and flanks.

A life long experience of pain, his or others', had hardened him against such emotions; yet, he had not been able to suppress a pang of compassion. Suddenly the young man had opened his eyes and he had met the shock of a deep blue gaze staring at him interrogatively.

Questioned, he had uttered his name with a sort of honest pride: "Bodie, Sir". The voice was pleasant, undoubtedly English and steadier than could be expected from his apparent condition.

And now, George Cowley was at his bedside again, not in a grim bush camp barrack, but in a clear, white, impeccably clean hospital room. It was a testimony of the growing political influence of his mentor that he had managed within two days, to arrange a medical repatriation and an admission to a London military hospital, not only for his own man, but for this stranger too.

MacLaren was out, for some examination or other. He was alone with the boy, waiting for him to awaken and wondering what he was going to do with him after his medical release. A brief inquiry, based on the sparse information given by the man had not uncovered any family or personal records. He knew nothing definite about this man, not even his name.

"Bodie", if that was his name, was still asleep and breathing evenly, happily unaware of the surrounding world. Cowley let his gaze wander over the male figure, roughly defined by a thin blanket: Tall, wide shouldered, well muscled though slim, he must have been perfectly fit and trained before he had been wounded and captured. A fine soldier, really.

Major George Cowley liked fine soldiers. And it did no harm when they were good looking too. As for this one, he could easily be called beautiful with his regular features (apart from a funny, slightly snub nose) and these absurdly long lashes which almost reached the high cheekbones.

He shook his head, angry with himself; handsome soldiers and beautiful boys were not a healthy daydream topic for a man in his position.

As if in answer to his thoughts, the thickly fringed eyelids lifted and Cowley was caught again...diving in deep marine blue...Stop! He cringed inwardly; deep marine blue pits, indeed! Last time he had fallen for such nonsense, he was still at boarding school. The man was decidedly dangerous, and not only for his fighting skills.

At the moment this dangerous man was smiling at him, not remotely shy, and his deep blue eyes looked still deeper and bluer.

"You recognize me?"

The smile broadened. "Of course I recognize you! Your face was the most beautiful thing I had seen in ages."

"What do you mean?" asked Cowley, a little taken aback.

"It was an honest Englishman's face."

"I am a Scot," retorted Cowley sternly. If he was stung, it didn't show.

"Oh, yes," said the young man with indifference, "just a manner of speaking, you know...among all these dark, unfriendly faces; it was like coming home at last..."

"You are home now. What are your plans for the future?"

A shadow veiled the handsome face. "Future? I haven't thought about it."

"You have to. What age are you?"

I'll be twenty four this July, end of July," he added with playfulness, "I'm a Lion, you see..."

"Come on, man," Cowley snapped, "We are talking seriously. What do you intend to do after you have been released?"

The young man shrugged, then winced: "Ouch! Damned shoulder!" He looked up at the ceiling. "Don't know, really...Anything I find, providing it's reasonably paid. There's a lot of things I can do." He smiled. "I happen to have worked in some strange places...such as 'Le Pompon Rouge', in Tangier; it was supposed to be a sailor's home." He smirked. "It was more a male brothel than anything else, to tell the truth."

Cowley was shocked and surprised to be so. "Save this tale for someone else; I'm not interested in your dirty little secrets."

Bodie was unfazed. "I was only the bouncer."

"What a waste," thought Cowley in a totally illogical way. He didn't voice his feelings but they probably showed on his face, for the young man laughed frankly.

"I was very popular there. Sometimes I regret I didn't take more advantage of the situation: there were quite a few big-wigs among the regulars, you know."

Cowley knew, or rather remembered. _Yes, and we had our eye on them, as did the French, and the Soviets as well_.But he kept these reflections to himself. It reminded him he had to check the man's past and background before he could offer him a job. The idea struck him by its incongruity: why should he propose anything to a total stranger, whose kinship was unknown, previous history murky and personal character dubious? It was as if he was looking for a good reason to keep in touch with the lad.

No, he decided; there were good reasons enough: On the plane, he had had time to read MacLaren's reports about the insurgency and Bodie's part in it. The man was smart, undoubtedly: a born warrior, a natural leader and, more importantly, he had a reputation for perfect loyalty towards his chosen masters. Properly handled, he could become a precious asset to one or another of the British Special Forces. In the future at least - not now. He had to be tested and prepared carefully. Well, he had to heal up first. His present condition was far from bright.

Cowley got right back to the point. "Have you got any financial resources at your disposal?"

Bodie raised a single circumflex-shaped eyebrow: "How could I? You found me naked in the middle of the bush, remember?"

"Don't tell me you work for free!"

"Well, I didn't get the premium for this last mission, but I don't want to complain; I have money enough, just not in England."

"I hope I can manage to find you a place in a military convalescent home, where you could stay for about a month, two at the most. After that, you'll have to be on your own."

It was more than Bodie would have figured in his most optimistic speculations. "Why would you do that for me?"

_God knows why_, thought Cowley, _Or the devil, but I don't_. He pulled a sour face: "Do you expect me to throw you naked and penniless onto the London streets?"

Bodie couldn't help trying to push his advantage. "I will be naked and penniless when I get out of your rest home."

"Oh, I have no doubt you are quite able to find a few odd jobs before retrieving your hidden loot." He let out the last dart: " London isn't lacking in places of debauchery; they employ bouncers too, you know."


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

Cowley was driving much too fast on the secondary road leading to Repton. He was still gritting his teeth at the fresh memory of Foulques and Barnshaw looking down at him in the Minister's office (And to think they were not even the Head of their respective services! Both had sent their second in command). A few last points to fix about the necessary cooperation between all the Intelligence Services and Special Forces, maybe up to some coordination of their action whenever the superior interests of the State would command... Cowley had easily translated as How can we manage to keep things under control with a new player in the game and particularly this stubborn, impetuous, disrespectful Scotsman in charge?

Actually, there was no real prospect of setting any formal connections between MI5 and MI6. The two old intelligence services remained firmly rooted in their tacit "non-ingerence" agreement. The only point in discussion was to decide whether the projected new organisation would get any independence at all or be submitted to a double tutelage. Cowley had counted on the Minister's support and had not been disappointed. The Home Secretary, fortunately, had been won to this cause for some time now, by Cowley's political protector who was reputed to have the PM's ear. Besides, he was not personally on the best of terms with either Foulques or Barnshaw, though he was bound to handle them carefully as long he had no good reason to get them fired. Cowley himself had had both men as colleague or senior officer during his previous career in the Services and didn't want to turn them into declared enemies at the very start of his great enterprise, which was even yet not precisely defined. He has just been freed from MI5 a couple of weeks ago, to become the special Minister's advisor in matters of inner security and terrorism. MacLaren's rescue had been his last mission with but not for MI5 and, in a way, could pass for a sort of personal favour since the lad was the son of a distant relative, Yet the implied offence was hard to ignore and it chafed.

So he was still fuming while tearing along at full speed on a particularly bumpy country road. Repton was isolated and not meant to be found on the ordinary maps of the region. Actually it was one of the most guarded and secret places in the country. Under the banal denomination of «medical rest house» a more disquieting and unavowable reality was hidden.

Unavowable but necessary thought Cowley while proffering his credentials to the guard at the gate. He felt disturbingly uncertain regarding the whole issue and angry at himself for being so. There was no question that he had a right to know who and what the man was, to which he has offered his protection while still being accountable to MI5, and that he couldn't deny this information from his former employer. Moreover he had decided to pierce through the many layers of secret which surrounded the young man's past and personality himself. He was counting for that on the skills and experience of Repton's specialists: Psychiatrists, Psychologists, Psychoanalysts, whatever «Psy» they called themselves, they were the best at this, and it was not the first time he had to rely on them for extracting the truth out of unconscious or refractory individuals. And refractory Bodie was, that was for sure, in spite of his jolly, easy-going attitude.

MacLaren's report was not very informative about Bodie's previous occupations, the merc appearing to have been exceptionally wary towards his cell-mate (had he smelled a spy? Smart boy!); there was just a hint about a gun-running business and it was based upon the declarations of one of the insurgents, after his capture, not Bodie's confidences.

* * *

"So, how's the lad?"

"Pretty well. He's improving every day, within hours, I'd say. Oh, he seems to be the resilient type, this boy, almost too lively and energetic sometimes." Affable and smiling, Dr Martin Harrington was a model of prudent evasiveness. Cowley cut him short...

"Can I have a talk with him?"

-"Hmm..." A second of hesitation. A shadow of embarrassment on the jolly face, "hmm, yes, I suppose...as soon as your colleagues are finished..."

"My colleagues?" Cowley asked sharply.

"Well, these gentlemen from MI6, you know..."

Cowley had had no regular link with MI6 since war time. The presence of his MI5 contact wouldn't have been surprising though he thought he had made it clear he wanted to be the only one to deal with this case and to carry out the interrogation. But MI6? What were they here for?

He had not long to wait for an answer: two men entered the room, of which one at least was known of him, and not for the best: Willis, Foulques' assistant, shadow-man and master of dirty tricks. The other was the average, nondescript, Whitehall civil servant.

"You already know Willis, I assume? This is Horton; he's in charge of the interrogation process."

"That's my own personal responsibility," Cowley said stiffly, "I have all the necessary permission."

"It is?" Willis was not easily taken aback.

"From Philip Barnshaw, for starters, and he takes his orders from a higher place, as you know perfectly well."

A higher place indeed. There was no need at this point to mention Cowley's connection to the PM himself.

Willis was unfazed. "MI5 has no competence in that matter, it's all under my department's jurisdiction."

"How come?" There was, of course the fact that the man had been found on foreign soil and was fighting as a mercenary, to support an insurgency the Western Powers didn't want to acknowledge openly. But still?

"This is a case of international terrorism." Willis looked very satisfied with the effect of his announcement. "There's a strong suspicion this guy has been involved in an illegal weapons trade to the Palestinian 'Liberation Front' through Jordan."

Cowley frowned. This was something he couldn't ignore, or deny the jurisdiction of MI6 upon. Inwardly he blamed himself for sloppy research. How thoughtless of him! Very uncharacteristic. Since when was he disarmed by a young scoundrel's good looks?

"How did you find out?"

Willis smiled with unhidden pleasure. "Come on, George, you must know we have our informers everywhere, even inside the so-called 'Fronts of Liberation'."

Go to hell with your 'George', Willis, do I call you Edmond?

"Yes, and there is nothing like a thick wad of her Majesty's pictures to open the heart and memory of the staunchest patriot," Cowley commented acidly.

"Well, not everybody has your steadfast integrity, George." In spite of the apparent irony, the unwilling tone of respect in Willis' voice was unmistakable. For the shortest while, the man looked surprised and almost ashamed of his admission.

Cowley seized his advantage. "I want to be part in the procedure. And to get the reports."

His opponent had recovered his composure. "Why? It's not MI5's business. And you are not even with MI5 any more."

So, this was the moment to lay down his master card. "You know with whom I am now, Willis. He likes to be informed directly. And more so if there is the least risk of putting the Government in a false position with the Israelis. (And by my own fault, he thought bitterly, that's precisely what I did by giving my protection to the young rascal while I was still linked to MI5).

The other man was visibly hesitating. "And," Cowley added with reluctance, "I can help. I saved the boy's life; he trusts me."

"That's right," Horton spoke for the first time, "We need all the help we can get. Up to now our results have been about nil." He turned to Cowley. "The suspect is especially contrary-minded, even under heavy psycho-active medication."

"You drugged him!" Cowley didn't know why he felt angry. He had done the same many times.

"Not before everything else – apart from bodily harm - had been tried," protested Horton, "He is able to retreat deep inside and get out of reach at will. The chemicals make him confused and uncoordinated, but not more talkative, whatever the stuff I use; I never saw such resistance." There was a hint of admiration in Horton's tone.

"I want to see him," said Cowley.

"He's not in any condition to take another interrogation now." Horton objected.

"I see no objection." Harrington hastily replied to the three others' surprise. He looked ill at ease, perhaps wishing not to appear to be taking sides and yet unable to confront Cowley's claim of authority. Or maybe was he aware that Cowley wielded more power than he showed?

"I don't intend to interrogate him," Cowley pursued, "I just want to see him. Now. Alone."

"As you like," Willis' tone was indifferent. "As long as you share with us any bit of information you can come across. Don't forget the interests at stake." He turned to Harrington. "We'll be here again tomorrow morning for another session."

Cowley stayed by the door for a short while, scanning the surroundings. The ward nurse to whom he had presented his security badge had returned to his desk, midway in the corridor, and was monitoring the rooms through a large electronic board that displayed a dozen small screens. The man, stoutly built and morose faced, glanced at him and pushed a button; the steel door slid open to a windowless, sparsely furnished bedroom.

For the first time since his only visit to the London hospital, he stood in front of the man. No, the boy, made still more boyish-looking by his blue and white striped pyjamas and his ultra-short hair trim. Too short. Cowley frowned and took a step forward, to have a better look on the dark head sunk in the pillow. The hair looked moth-eaten in places. Shaven! They had shaved his hair around the frontal lobes and other significant areas.

Mouth dry, Cowley proffered his hand, brushing against one thick eyebrow, and lightly rubbed the bare spots. He licked his finger: gooey and sharp, with a metallic under-flavour. He went closer and bent over the raised bed-head. Almost unconsciously he stroked again the boy's brow and temples. They were damp, shining with a thin, unhealthy sweat.

The young face, much paler than he remembered but less gaunt, was half-turned to him, eyes closed; the skin briefly shivered under the caress and the funny long lashes fluttered against his palm before the lids opened to an absent stare. Cowley held his breath. Where had the intent, deep ultra-marine gaze gone? Drowned into twin black holes that had engulfed its light and life.

"How do you feel, laddie?" It wasn't uttered loudly but the sound of his voice, imperceptibly shaky and strangely thick, arising in the unnatural surrounding silence, almost made him wince. Padded walls, he noticed belatedly.

The dark, misty pupils eventually focused on him. "Who…who are you?"

Startled, Cowley stepped back. From this new angle, he had a better view of the upper part of the man's body, his heaving chest, his left arm stretched out, partly dangling from over the bed's safety railing, his hand, his wrist…The look of his wrist made Cowley cringe. There, unmistakably, was a bruised circle.

Dr Harrington was going to have to give some explanation. Cowley gathered all the inner calm he was capable of and got closer again. He laid a steadying palm on the boy's slightly quivering hand. "Don't be afraid, laddie. It's me. Cowley. George Cowley."

The boy stared at him, in evident confusion. "I don't know you. Never seen you." He withdrew his hand from the other man's grip and shut his eyes, visibly exhausted.

"You don't remember me? No memories at all? From Africa? From the London hospital?"

The young man shook his head. "No."

Cowley considered the problem for a little while. "What do you remember? Before this moment?"

"I…I was in another room. With three men. They asked me questions." He was speaking too fast, stumbling on his words. "I couldn't answer them."

"Don't worry. I won't push you. Just relax and think. Do you remember being brought to this place?"

The kid's effort to concentrate was painful to see. "No."

Cowley's voice sounded exaggeratedly mellow to his own ears. "Listen. You don't know where you are. You don't know the people who brought you here. You don't know what you have done before. Do you know who you are?"

"Yes!" was the swift reply, "I am Bodie."

"Bodie what?"

"Just Bodie."

This, at least, was something he could recognize. His mind leaped back to the time (was it only two weeks ago?) when they had first met in that gloomy bush shack. The lad was then wounded, severely beaten, starving, filthy, feverish, almost dying but oh, so much livelier than the sad wretch of a man he had in front of him now. An awkward feeling, which he thought had been forcefully ripped from him ages ago, was palpitating in his guts again. This is your work, George Cowley.

But who is Bodie? Wasn't that the question from the beginning? Even for the guy himself, perhaps. He recalled the outcome of his half-aborted research into the man's past: sailor, mercenary, arms dealer, possibly deserter, all in a limited span of time, given his age. The resulting picture was that of a fugitive, a man on the run.

He bent over the bed and plunged into the black pupils' void, as dim as a starless night, wondering whether this desolate emptiness wasn't the final haven, the end of the road for the breathless runner. And then, at this very point, Cowley changed his mind.

Never until now, in a life devoted to the service of public interest, had he given precedence to compassion on duty; nor had he ever contemplated getting in the way of an enquiry he had himself started to gain intelligence in matters of international terrorism. He pondered. In a way, if he thought further, he wasn't changing his mind, actually. Bringing Bodie to this place was his doing. Handing him to the Repton specialists was his idea. But carrying out the interrogation himself had been his will. And still was.

He put a comforting hand on the youth's shoulder. "Bodie, do you want to recover your memory?"

The answer was long in coming. "I…not sure…" There were hints of anguish and wariness in the faltering words.

"What do you want, Bodie?"

A quick reply this time: "Get out, I want to get out!"

"You will. I promise you, you will. Do you trust me, Bodie?"

Silence. And yes, why should he trust him? Cowley sighed. Not before having voiced the promise aloud had he realised how much he wanted to see the lad out from those walls, wholesome, and free.

* * *

There never will be a next session, Cowley swore to himself fervently, while driving less recklessly than he had indulged in before on his way to Repton, because Bodie was lying asleep in the rear seat of the car. Under powerful tranquillisers; for the last time, he hoped.

The talk with Harrington had been easier, or at least less awkward than he had first feared. The Head of Repton was primarily a physician, after all, still young, at the start of a very promising carreer, with stellar academic records and a hitherto immaculate reputation; recently promoted to this post, of which he seemed not to have measured all the implications fully, he must have bitterly resented being forced to break his Hippocratic oath so patently (the Repton methods, though somehow irregular in their aim at efficiency, were usually more subtle). In their earlier meeting, Cowley had perceived the man's desire to be relieved from both his moral and statutory responsibility. The first goal was easy to reach; the second much less so.

Eventually, and to his own surprise, he had managed to slip through the net of bureaucratic regulations without having to make a phone call to the Home Office, which could have been a little tricky given his current, still not well defined, position and the indisputably "foreign" nature of the case. His credentials as the Minister's special advisor, joined to his natural authority, had been enough, thanks God. All due reports could be postponed. He had time to polish up his argument, the rationales of which were getting clearer in his mind as he was thinking about them: The Repton team, like the MI6 interrogators, had failed in their attempts to break the suspect's resistance and their methods, had they been allowed to continue, could even have ended in damaging the man's brain irremediably, so he had seized the last chance to salvage the situation by using his personal influence on the man. Yes, that was the best line of defence.

"Defence". The word and the notion cut deep into Cowley's unusually wavering stream of consciousness. His left hand hit the wheel and the car swivered. "Defence"! He cursed inwardly. Why should have he to seek for a defence? How could he have put himself in such a false position at the very time he was on the point of achieving a life-long project of national importance, an undertaking that should prevail over any personal feeling or interest? To those vital questions there was no answer. Or, rather, he realised bitterly, the only true answer was one he couldn't accept; it was absurd, and dangerous, and humiliating.

Meanwhile, the – not so innocent – living cause of his turmoil was soundly asleep behind. Soon he'd have to feed him, to shelter him and, summing it up, take care of him wholly.

Cowley sighed and took the road up North, direction: Scotland.

The journey ahead was long. He had time to think. Maybe too much time for his peace of mind. He had to admit that he had taken his decision on the spur of the moment, something very out of character for him, and worse, at the least suitable time. Though…perhaps not: to see things from another perspective, he now had more freedom and more free time than he ever had in all the course of his career; to be in between two official positions had its perks: months of delayed vacations to take if he wanted to, no one to be directly accountable to, except two politicians who trusted him while not liking his current adversaries too much (though bound to show them some consideration)…Yes, the situation wasn't as dire as he had first feared. So why did he feel so bleak inside? Blast it! Had he suddenly turned into a sentimental old weakling?

Notwithstanding, he had a task to fulfil and needed a convenient place for that purpose. The family house in Drymen, north of Glasgow, he had discarded at once. Whatever might happen during the interrogation process, having his older sister as witness would certainly be the most improper thing he could picture. The obvious choice was Angus' place in Aberfoyle; his cousin was always disposed to lend him the little lodge by the loch. He had often used it, alone or with a friend, during the fishing season. It was quiet, remote from the village, hidden by the hill and the woods from all viewers: perfect!

Somehow appeased by this prospect, he put on speed. The purpose of a successful interrogation was the only justifiable excuse for his transgressions. And he was resolute to achieve it. At any price.

End of Chapter Two


	3. Chapter 3

OUT OF THE DARK

Chapter Three

He had reached the fringes of the Lake District and it was late in the afternoon when his passenger awoke. It was just this faint, rattling noise of the door handle unfastening cautiously that had alerted him. He pulled over and turned his head round.

"Don't make any foolish moves, laddie. All the doors are locked and you've nothing to fear from me, anyway." He got no answer. He went on. "You are not in the power of the MI6 mob any more; don't worry. I won't harm you. I can help you if you allow me to."

The boy kept silent for a long while. Then: "I want to get out." The voice was curiously blank and subdued. Cowley sighed. "I promised you would. But we have things to set right first." It wasn't the place or the moment to elaborate. He felt compelled to speak slowly and softly, as with a mildly backward child. He smiled, reassuringly. "And the first thing to fix is food. Aren't you hungry?"

"No," was the not very cooperative answer.

"Well, I am." His lunch was getting old and had been pretty light anyway. But the drugs that were meddling with Bodie's brain and nerves seemed to have had a negative effect on his appetite. Unless the lad was just trying to be contradictory. Cowley's inner voice was telling him that in his present condition he wasn't to be trusted, neither to be left alone in the car, nor to be taken to a public place. That was going to be a problem. And he loathed thinking of the solution to this problem. Except he had no choice.

They had just passed a village and the road was bordering a not too large but thick beech wood. Cowley drove the car in a dirt lane and parked in a sort of narrow path. The spot was remote and dark. With luck, nobody would notice the car from the road or hear…anything suspicious. He opened the glove compartment, blessing the darkness.

"I've got cheese biscuits. Would you like some?"

Bodie didn't answer but proffered his hand, thoughtlessly. With the swiftest of moves, Cowley slipped one manacle around the young man's wrist and, in a split second, he had fastened the other to the steering wheel. Boy! You must be very low to be caught by the oldest trick in the book.

In a flash of belated insight, Cowley realised his mistake when he saw, coming towards him with terrific might and speed, a huge fist propelled by a strong muscular arm, which missed his neck by a hair's breadth and landed on the dashboard, smashing the speedometer dial. The vision of his companion's face contorted with rage and despair was enough to scare any man less prepared for dire situations than George Cowley. As fast as a bolt, he had opened the door and jumped outside.

"Sorry, lad, I can't let you destroy this car." Now he really had no choice. This madman was attempting to tear out the wheel from its frame. He had to stop him, and the best means for that purpose, he had it at hand, in the inner pocket of his jacket: something he had mutely sworn he would never use when Harrington had given it to him with his last, well-meaning recommendations about the way to deal with this difficult patient and his furious fits of violence.

Half bent as he was over the front seat, Bodie offered an easy target. A perfectly applied karate chop had him knocked out flat on the wheel. Then, the needle in the neck muscles to finish the job. The powerful drug would provide four hours of sleep at least. No need for manacles now. His soundly sleeping passenger would retrieve his former position on the rear seats, and he himself was now free to leave the car to make a few necessary purchases and phone calls. The risk of some idle stroller intruding was quite negligible. The negative point being of course that he couldn't drive.

He wasn't far from the village, hardly more than a ten minute walk by a short-cut through the fields; but the ground of the lane was uneven, muddy and covered with slippery weeds. He limped his way downhill to a grocery he had spotted beforehand while driving and was relieved to see that the small, all-purpose shop was still open though its owner was obviously on the point of putting down the shutters.

"You are lucky," he grumbled, "that this ass Frankie was so late with his delivery. What do you want at this ungodly hour?"

The mentioned delivery displayed a large stack of rye bread, still in its cardboard box. Cowley took two packs of them, a sack of potatoes, some apples and bananas, sliced ham and bacon in convenient quantity, and two dozen eggs (he was certain the stock of tinned food left in the cabin last time he was there would be quite sufficient for at least two weeks); eventually he also bought a small flask of motor oil, which was of no use to him but could explain the presence of a formally dressed stranger without a car wandering around the country-side at seven in the evening.

"Trouble with your car?" asked the man who, actually, did look a little curious.

"Just an oil leak; saw it too late," replied Cowley briefly; "Needs a repair but that must wait till my arrival."

"Take this bag," proposed the seller amiably; "it's stronger; the potatoes are no light weight: about a stone, and it's my smallest package. I hope you are not parked too far away."

"No, thanks; I stopped near the beech wood." (No sense lying about that).

"Well, it's not next door. Watch out: yesterday's downpour has left a lot of mud on the road."

How true. Twenty minutes later he was testing the veracity of this assertion as he was striving for his balance while painfully walking back to his car, uphill. The winding road was less steep than the short-cut but much longer and almost as slippery. Fortunately the loose hemp bag given to him by the shopkeeper was of the kind you can hang on your shoulder; he wondered if he would have been able to carry it by hand otherwise. He cursed in turn himself, Bodie and the British road maintenance. Only the grim prospect of having to live two weeks on canned food, and the growing certainty he'd have to stick to Bodie like a tick to a dog as soon as the boy woke had brought him to buy the potatoes and the fruit, not to mention twenty four breakable fresh eggs.

He had managed to get his cousin on the phone. The phone box smelled of cat piss and the receiver looked damaged, but it worked. He hadn't tried to tell tales. Angus was a retired Navy officer and had spent his post-war years in the Services. He was well informed about Cowley's occupations and more than willing to help, without asking too many questions. However there was no way he could stay hiding, undiscovered, at his cousin's place more than 48 hours, and cheating the authorities would be disastrous in his position, anyway. He had to be open with them. The talk with the Home Secretary, shortly following another one, more important, with his political mentor by the PM, had been trickier to negotiate, but he had succeeded in winning both their backing. Bodie could be an invaluable source of information about the Palestinian support networks and it was of prime importance to prevent the MI6 spooks from botching the case.

Besides, it was the honest truth. At least that was what Cowley wanted to believe. And if he was able to convince himself, there was a good chance that he could convince anybody else.

The way back was a nightmare. Limping more and more heavily, staggering and slipping at almost every step, he reached his car at last and slumped in the driver's seat. A quickly made ham sandwich and a can of light beer helped him to recover somehow. He made a gesture to the flask of whisky and held it back with a groan. He had still nigh two hundred miles to drive before he could indulge his alcohol craving safely.

Bodie was still as stone. Cowley checked his breathing and pulse, and was relieved. The blow to the head and the drugging didn't seem to have done any grievous harm to the man, as far as he could tell. Young and healthy as he was… Cowley's thoughts were drifting back to a time when he had got through much direr plights himself, got through pain, loss and treason, licked his wounds, and healed. But had he healed? A lame leg and a distrustful mind were not the only sequels, nor the worse. What the hell! He refocused on the job at hand and drove off. The lad would pull through, no doubt.

The rest of the journey was remarkably uneventful, that not meaning quiet or peaceful. After half-an-hour of unnatural calm, Bodie had started moaning and stirring feverisly in his sleep. This was not only slightly irritating but also, in some manner, predictive of the upcoming difficulties of the situation. Cowley strove hard to keep his thoughts strictly professional. First he had to regain the boy's trust. That was a prerequisite to anything he would attempt to help him retrieve his memory. Without trust, nothing could possibly work. Especially if he had to cheat him again, he remarked to himself with a bitter irony that, from him, was not so much a mark of cynicism than mere experience-born lucidity. Yet, it still depressed him sometimes. And this time more than ever.

He began to feel better long before he had reached Glasgow: Appeased, breathing fully, more alive, more himself in a way (his part of English blood – wool merchants from the Cottswolds, settled in Glasgow for centuries – had been so diluted by repeated Scottish matrimonies that only his family name reminded him of it). Crossing the border of Scotland always had a soothing effect on him, even if the Lowlands weren't so different from their English counterparts. Once on the Scottish soil, it was strangely easy to forget or, at least, to keep at a distance London, the ever conflicting "services", the Government's contradictory demands and his own burden of duties. This time however, was not vacation time. He had brought his current "duty" with him. And this one wouldn't let be forgotten so easily...

Desirous for obvious reasons to avoid the most populated areas, he skirted Glasgow by North-East, leaving on his right the road to Kilsyth, where MacLaren's parents lived, and – obliquing westwards, then North - headed for Drymen, hoping he would be spared the bad luck of being spotted by Frannie while driving through. Not very likely at this hour of the day. She should be riveted to her TV screen. Or playing cards with her bunch of old bats.

There was no real closeness between Cowley and his elder sister, just a sort of acrimonious familiarity. And yet, he couldn't count the number of times he had declined her invitations. The last time he had accepted (it was Christmas' eve and he was there mostly for their other relatives) she had tried to pair him with the daughter of a lady friend of her, twenty years younger than him, and ugly as sin. He was still shuddering at the reminiscence.

Though, to be honest, he admitted to himself, had she been as pretty as a rosebud that it wouldn't have changed anything to his reluctance. Womanhood, he mused, was a strange territory, one to which he would always feel alien, so much so actually that, after two – fairly awkward - incursions therein, he'd prefered it to remain for him "Terra Incognita".

The majestuous prospect of Loch Lomond on his left with its huge expanse of water and its many man-made islets, everything in the surrounding space now tinted with unlikely shades of colour by the sunset (a not so uncommon occurence), tore him away from this perillous turn of mind. He pulled over, opened the windows and stayed there for a while, letting him being washed over by the warm, soft glow of the downing light and the cool, enlivening sea breeze, welcoming them as if they were some secret blessings from the Land's spirit.

His (fairly pagan, he thought guiltily) meditation was cut off by a faint rustle from behind. He turned round. Damn! His passenger had awakened earlier than expected. He was sitting very upright and stiff, staring at him, expressionless.

"Bodie, you're awake? How do you feel?" he said, very gently. The man kept staring, not moving.

"Do you remember who I am?"

"No", he looked bewildered.

"George Cowley. I took you from the hospital; you asked me to. Don't you remember anything?"

"I remember you hitting me."

"Well," Cowley retorted, "I remember you hitting me first." He omitted to recall the circumstances. "I couldn't let you wreck the car. You were very agitated. I had to calm you down."

Smiling reassuringly, he bent forward fractionally, and the other man flung himself backwards, hands profered in a clumsy gesture of defence. For a fleeting moment he looked like a scared rabbit. Nothing in him to remind the lethal fighter of late. Then he slid back in its previous state of withdrawal. So, the drug was still working at some level. Fine for now.

"You've nothing to fear from me; I won't do you any harm."

"You hit me." repeated the young man with a sort of dumb stubbornness. He didn't mention the drugging or the manacles and Cowley thought wiser to leave that uncleared.

"I'm sorry, Bodie, really sorry; but I couldn't do anything else." He got no reaction and went on. "How do you feel? Any headache?"

He was beginning to be truly worried, actually, and the sincerity of his tone seemed to get at his companion.

"Yes – no," he answered hesitantly, "I feel... strange. What...what happened?"

"You were held in this hospital, Repton, after I brought you home from Africa. You were on watch for a week, then interrogated by MI6 people. They treated you ...roughly; you wanted out; you asked me to take you out and I promised you I would. I kept my word, as you can see."

Cowley couldn't tell whether his explanations had been in any measure absorbed, or lost completely on the young man's foggy brain. Only mute distress and disorientation were showing on his handsome features. He was obviously still deeply confused. Confused but docile enough to accept being moved round to the passenger's front seat without further question. Better to have him there than behind, though there was little he could do if the man happened to get berserk again. This was a risk to run. The whole thing had been a risk to run, as all in Cowley's life had always been.

End of Chapter Three


	4. Chapter 4

OuT of the Dark

Chapter Four

They both kept silent for most of their trip to Aberfoyle, across the flat land of the moss towards the hills of the Trossachs and the forest, as the darkness slowly reached in spite of a veiled moonlight piercing through the trees. They were in sight of the mountains when Bodie emerged from his stupor.

"Where are we? Where are you taking me?"

Cowley spoke staidly. "We're in the West of Scotland. And we're going to stay at my cousin's place near Aberfoyle for a while."

"Why?"

"Well, to have a rest for a start, restore your health, work on your memory...I assume you want your memory back?"

Bodie's awareness was flickering like a candle in the wind. "I...don't know; I don't understand...what's going on? And what the hell am I doing with you?"

Cowley had to repeat patiently, with more details, his previous explanation. The tale of Bodie's rescue from an African jail, of his staying in Repton and his interrogation by the MI6 agents stirred little reaction from the young man. At least he seemed to apprehend some of it and get a rough draft of the whole picture. Slowly paddling out of his murky muddle...

"Why did you bring me with you?"

That was the difficult bit. "I'm in charge of you. Unofficially. There was a deal at the highest level: I offered to warrant for you so you could leave Repton."

Pause. Bodie was pondering on the implications. "You mean... I have to stay with you?"

"I am afraid so, yes."

Bodie's quirky eyebrow rose to an unprecedented height. "And what if I refuse?"

"There's not much choice in this, Bodie."

"I still can leave if I decide to."

"Where to? With what money? Whose help?" He didn't add that he always had a gun on him and was known to be a very good shot. Besides, he had no intention of using it in those circumstances. Such a threat would have been a rather poor way of winning Bodie's confidence.

Not to say that such a design was well advanced at the moment; his statement had been met by a gloomy look and a sullen face. Bodie's pouting could be judged endearing in other contexts; in this one, it was simply menacing.

However, he was visibly returning to sanity and thus, able to perceive the odds and chances of his situation. In Cowley's mind, there was little doubt that the man had all the ability to manage an escape successfully within the narrowest window of opportunity but, hopefully, not in his current condition.

"Surely, you wouldn't wish to offer Willis and his bloodhounds an occasion to chase you throughout the country – with all their resources, avowed or not - and take you back to Repton?"

Bodie didn't reply but looked gloomier. Cowley persisted. "I told you, you've nothing to fear from me. So far, the only help you've had is mine and I'm willing to maintain it. Under a single condition, that is -"

"Why?" Bodie cut in.

"What?" Cowley's gaze shifted to a remote spot up the road. No hope that question wouldn't be asked.

"Why are you doing it? Why bother with all the trouble, taking charge, looking after me? I need to know."

"Well, I could hardly leave a British national in captivity, while I was summoning all the British services abroad, official and unofficial, to help me rescue a relative of mine, young MacLaren, from his – from your common cell in this Katangese jail. A good man and a good agent by the way; you don't remember MacLaren?"

"No." Bodie's short reply was dismissive of any attempt at prevarication. Cowley sighed inwardly.

"After that, everything ensued quite naturally; you were wounded, you had to be attended to. It was simpler to put you in the same military hospital as your companion."

"Repton?"

"No, the London military hospital; I saw you there once, when I went to visit my young cousin. We talked about your prospects for the near future."

"Going to Repton?" (_Sardonic you'd say. God, the boy was improving __almost too quickly_)_._

"No, your intention to go abroad to retrieve your savings.

"Savings?" Bodie said interrogatively, as if the notion didn't belong in his vocabulary. But he didn't let himself be distracted from his purpose.

"Why Repton?"

"I'm sorry about that but it was'nt my idea; I had no clout then to bar it. Wasn't even informed at first. (_Not exactly the truth, not the entire truth_). Seems you were quite disturbed at the time and the doctors in charge thought you needed a quiet place to rest and collect yourself."

"In a loony bin, in the good care of the MI6 goons?" The quiet bitterness in the young man's tone affected Cowley more than he would have thought or wished.

"It wasn't meant to be that way. Repton's not only for mental patients, you know; it's basically a rest home."

Bodie smirked. "Really? From the little I remember, one thing's certain: I had very little rest in there."

"I'm well aware of what you've gone through and I'd have tried to prevent it if I'd known it in time." He was growing a little impatient in spite of his wish for appeasement. "There's no sense looking back to the past when there's nothing we can do to erase it or evade the consequences. The fact is I'm in charge of you now, and that's the best you can get, so let's go with it and have a deal for the future."

"A deal?"

"Yes, to set the rules about our forthcoming cohabitation. As I was saying when you interrupted me, I'm willing to give you all the help and support I'm capable of, to spare you further interrogation and to clarify your situation with the authorities regarding your legal status. But there are two conditions." He looked through the boy's defiant eyes; "First, that you fully cooperate in everything I judge useful to restoring your memory – considering there won't be anything remotely similar to the MI6 methods – and, secondly, that you give me your word of honour you're not going to run away at the first available opportunity."

Bodie avoided his gaze and remained silent for several minutes. He was visibly checking the possibilities of escape and discarding them one after another. "I can't promise to stay with you for too long. No more than a few days…"

Cowley exploded. "Come on, man! I'm not proposing you to share my life!" He went on more calmly; "I was intending to spend two or three weeks here, at the most. The doctors at Repton agreed that there was a good chance you'd recover your memory (_actually they had said 'sanity'_) within days, incrementally, as your blood cleared of the psycho-active drugs you'd been on." He didn't specify they had no idea about the long lasting effects of the brain-washing and electric shocks he'd been subjected to. "Seems the cocktail was unexpectedly aggressive, or you're unusually intolerant."

"They should have thought about it beforehand." Bodie grumbled.

"Most of your, er, treatment was prescribed by the MI6 specialists under their responsibility and administered by their own medical team. The Repton physicians had no say about it." Having finally exhausted his reserve of patience, he stammered, "Are you, or are you not, going to stay put for two weeks, working on your memory with me? Knowing that if you choose not to cooperate, if I don't get in touch with my contact twice a day, you are fair game for all the special forces of the Kingdom…"

Bodie just yawned. "I'm tired, want to sleep." He slouched back in his seat, pushing it backwards with a snap while stretching his legs full length. Through half shut eyelids, he must have caught a glimpse of warning on the older man's face for he relented, "I suppose I might try, for two weeks…"

That was as good a promise as it came. Cowley nodded in silent assessment. He was pleased with the boy's progress. Too soon.

* * *

Bodie didn't get back to sleep, but he kept to himself during the last part of the trip, oddly quiet, just looking through the car's window at the mountain ridge, sharply outlined in black against the deep blue of the night sky. The moon now was high and full above the pine-trees, bright enough to dull the stars, its silvery light pervading the landscape all around with a pale shimmer. Bodie's face was pale too in this lightning, his skin ashen and his neatly chiselled lips discoloured. His still profile, framed by the car's window, unpleasantly reminded Cowley of a funeral mask.

He fought the eerie feeling that was getting to him; his passenger's fast change of moods, from aggressiveness to withdrawal, though clearly down to his state of intoxication, was becoming an annoyance. He suddenly needed to hear the sound of a voice, even his own, if the damned stubborn son of a bitch was going to persist in his spooky act.

"Look, laddie, we're almost there. Have you made up your mind? I need a firm assurance of your good will, not some vague, "I suppose I might try"; so, what's your last word?" His voice was dry and clipped, devoid of all its previous studied gentleness.

Swivelling briskly, Bodie came back to life in a flash. "You told me I had no choice. Looks like you're right. I couldn't run away for long, even if I wanted to." He paused. "I don't want to. I feel tired. I don't understand anything. I just want to sleep and not wake up for a hundred years."

At that, Cowley almost choked on a laugh. "I'm a patient and persistent man, as you'll see, but that's too long a wait for my life expectancy. I can only give you the rest of the night and the next morning. Till noon, no more."

Shrugging, Bodie went back to his pose of indifference (Cowley had decided it was a pose), which he maintained during the last twenty minutes of the drive. They didn't pass through Aberfoyle; turning left before they reached it, Cowley followed a narrow road, bordered by the southern bank of the loch on one side and the forest slopes on the other, down to a small village with the name of Blairhullichan. Then he took a dirt lane, hardly suitable for urban vehicles, which led uphill to a massive stone building.

He intended to leave the car in the farmyard; no need to wake the old man at two in the morning. He heard the dogs barking, far away. So, Angus had taken them to the old kennel so as not to be disturbed. Cowley didn't like the idea of being such a burden to a seventy year old pensioner, but Angus was Army, better: Navy, and besides, as strong as an oak.

Bodie was looking at him interrogatively. Cowley opened the door. "We're not there yet. The lodge is by the river down there, not by the loch, about half way from here. We've to walk down through the forest." He grasped his travel bag and showed Bodie the heavy hemp bag with the food supply and a remaining large suitcase. "Take those; I don't want to come back tomorrow morning." Bodie's little smile irritated him. "Come on, man; you seem well enough fit to carry them both. I've to hold the torch." A swift glance at the other's sleepy look and slouching posture, with the sudden memory of his precious fresh eggs, gave him an afterthought. "I'll take the food. Try not to drop the suitcase, there are bottles in it."

They started cautiously stepping down a pretty steep forest path. Confronted by a Scottish repeat of his previous nightmarish trek on the slippery Yorkshire road, Cowley cursed his choice of a shelter and the unwise partiality for fresh food that had brought him twice in a day to the same ridiculous and painful predicament. This was a surviving hedonistic streak in his otherwise well honed habits of discipline, which he sternly promised himself to put a check on in the future.

Sunk in his thoughts, he tripped on a root and slipped; he would have lost his balance if his companion hadn't held him firmly with his free arm. The gesture was more instinctive than friendly, but it touched him oddly. During the briefest of moments he yielded to the embrace, wrapped in the warmth of a young and strong body. Then he straightened himself and shifted off, bending to pick up the travel bag he had dropped. Suddenly he felt cold and queasy.

"Thanks, Bodie," he said uneasily."

"Let me have the heavy bag. You're tired; I can take both actually."

"Mind your own business, young man," he snapped. He hated his rudeness, and he hated even more the gleam of compassion he had seen in the boy's gaze. "There is no point anyway," he added grudgingly, "the lodge is only a few yards away now."

That was right. The path soon got wider and easier. They could distinctly hear the river lapping on its rocky banks just before they entered a rather large clearing surrounded by oaks. The house in the centre, small but solidly built of grey stone and wood beams, was a welcome sight for both men. With intense relief, Cowley noticed the light above the door. The power was on; the generator was working. There would be no need for struggling to start the beastly machine and its oil feeding in the middle of the night. He fervently blessed his cousin's good will and support. Things hadn't always been that hospitable between the MacFarlanes and the MacGregors, even in the family circle, but Angus MacFarlane was the best of his ilk!

He retrieved the key from under the usual flat stone, left of the threshold (silly hiding place by the way but there was not much to steal in the lodge and it was difficult to reach it by any other way than the loch and the river).

The room inside was chilly. Cowley remembered that the small electric heater was broken the last time he was here, last summer; apparently it hadn't been repaired since then. The weather had been quite mild and pleasant during the past days but May in this area was not a month when you can do without a little heating at night.

"It's damp," complained Bodie.

"Yes, it is," Cowley retorted sourly, "That's spring in Scotland, we're close to the river, what do you expect?"

Bodie mumbled something indistinct.

"I assume you know how to light a fire; so, try to make you useful while I unpack and set the bedding."

Bodie nodded and obeyed silently. Everything necessary was on display in the fireplace: logs, sticks and twigs, with matches close by. Soon, a pleasant blaze was dancing in the hearth. "Quick and efficient," noted Cowley, as he was laying sheets and quilt on a narow bunk by the fireplace. Not for the first time he wondered whether the man wasn't acting; not from the beginning - that was unlikely - … though? It was not impossible to simulate while drugged; he knew that; he had done it himself. Anyway, whatever the case, the solution was the same. He had to regain the boy's trust.

Which boy, at the moment, really looked as exhausted and sleepy as he claimed to be, and Cowley wasn't any better. Gathering all his strength, he had made his bed in the main bedroom and arranged his clothes in the big oak wardrobe. His first move had been to take the RT out of his travel bag and to put it in full sight on the chest of drawers. There was actually no settlement for regular radio checking signals, contrary to his previous assertion, but Bodie didn't need to know that. The gun had been unloaded, wrapped in a wool scarf and hidden beneath a removable floorboard under the bed, its empty holster lying near the RT. He had no intention of using it and he wanted it to be out of Bodie's reach; if the man got wild again, there still would be Harrington's remedy. Though he loathed the idea, it would be better than a bullet. The medication's innocuous looking package had been placed in the kitchen cupboard, behind a stack of various tins and cans, a single dose remaining in Cowley's pocket, thus available at any moment.

Now, after a quick snack, he was sitting at the table, in front of Bodie, each one sipping his own comfort drink: hot strong tea for Bodie and single malt for Cowley: Laphroaigh, 16 years old.

"I don't think I should offer you alcohol in your condition," Cowley apologised.

"I don't want it," replied Bodie; "By the way, where did this bottle come from?"

"From my suitcase, where it was keeping company with its twin and two fine old bottles of burgundy."

Bodie seemed to ponder the information. "Why the suitcase? Did you come to Repton with the intention of taking me out with you?"

"Of course not; the suitcase has been in the boot of my car since the week-end I spent with the MacLarens, two weeks ago. Jamie MacLaren was released soon after my first visit to the London hospital, as you know."

Bodie's gaze was blank. "I don't remember anything. I told you."

"Well," said Cowley, uncompromisingly, "Seems my memory is not so good either. I'd forgotten the suitcase and the bottles. I hope the variations of temperature didn't alter the wine's quality; this vintage is exceptional. Fergie is a real connoisseur." Bodie looked abysmally uninterested, so Cowley stopped the small talk. "Whatever, this oblivion was lucky in a way; at least **I** have proper clothes for the place and the season." He considered the athletic young man in front of him, "I'm afraid none of them would suit you, but Angus always used to leave a lot of his old things here and he must be about your size."

"Where can I sleep?" Bodie cut in abruptly.

"I take the bedroom; you've got the bunk by the fireplace."

"Of course!"

"What d'you mean, 'of course'!" Cowley exclaimed, sounding indignant, "I give you the warm place; I'm left with the cold room. What are you complaining about?"

"It's narrow, and it's hard."

"What a sissy boy we've got here! Was the vermin infested pallet I found you on in Katanga more comfortable?"

"I know nothing about Katanga," Bodie answered calmly and slowly, "I know nothing about Africa or about anything from my past, just what you told me yourself. And I repeat I have no memory beyond the moment I saw you in Repton."

"Not even vague reminiscences, images, sounds, scenes relived in dreams?"

"Not even that, or if I have, I forget them as soon as I'm awake." Bodie cast a piercing look at his minder. "You don't believe me. Do you think I'm faking?"

That was too close to home. Cowley lied: "No, I believe you."

Bodie smiled, a curious little resigned smile; "You don't trust me." He paused. "That's funny; because I trusted you."

He sounded sincere.

End of Chapter Four


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

"You don't trust me. That's funny, because I trusted you."

Startled, Cowley almost skipped a heart beat. He hadn't expected this. Of course, it had to be translated as, "I've found no other way to get out of your grip, so far." But it was unsettling nonetheless. He looked straight through Bodie's eyes. "I hope I can trust you – I want to - and you've to trust me because I'm the only backer you've got in this game."

"I don't play," retorted the young man sternly.

Cowley snorted. From all the titbits of information he had collected, the man was a gambler if ever there was one.

"So, should have I said: 'the only ally in this war'?"

"What war?"

"I wish I'd the answer. And you need to get it because it's the key to your freedom in this country."

Bodie grew sombre. "What do you mean?" Cowley hesitated. Perhaps, it was too early for a full explanation. But this had to be said sooner or later and maybe the shock of a direct attack would elicit an instructive reaction from the lad in his present state of exhaustion; if he wasn't faking, of course.

"From the information I've gathered, you're a mercenary and a gun-runner. For MI6, you are specifically suspected of providing arms and technical support to the Palestinian activists; something our government is not keen about letting pass unchecked and unsanctioned, or appearing to do so in the eyes of our Israeli friends. He paused. "I've got clout enough to give you a clean sheet and a new life if I can trade it against valuable intelligence."

"About the Palestinians? From me?" If Bodie's astonishment was an act, then he was the actor of the century. He held the older man's scrutinizing gaze for a long while and sighed, eventually breaking eye contact. "Are you sure I was a gun-runner and a mercenary?"

"Yes, of that at least, I'm sure; though of little else." Maybe it wasn't wise to admit as much. Was trust contagious? Cowley relented. "You're knackered and so am I. We'll discuss your past tomorrow. Let's go to bed."

And that was all for the night.

Of the days that followed, and for all the years to come, far ahead in the future, Cowley would keep a vivid, deceptively sharp memory, but unreal, like the mental images we keep of certain potent, recurrent dreams that, awakening, we can hardly distinguish from our daylight experiences; though we know with certainty they weren't part of our terrestrial life.

And yet, everything had begun so normally...

The next morning was ushered in by a belligerent sunbeam thrusting straight into Cowley's eyes through his bedroom window. Blinking, he rose up, fully awake at once and ready to start his customary morning routine.

He showered and shaved, trying not to use all the hot water, then cooked a copious breakfast, again blessing the kind heart and provident mind of his cousin; the old man had seen that the fridge was filled with abundant supplies of everything he deemed necessary. Which was a lot. A near-by farmer must have been commissioned in a hurry.

"I hope you like eggs," he addressed to Bodie when the youth emerged from his bunk some time later, looking shabby in Angus' worn out dressing gown, "because forty eight will be a little too many for me alone, even for two weeks."

"Love 'em," Bodie mumbled as he slumped down in front of him. He stayed quiet for a while, eyes shut; then, suddenly livened up by the smell of fried bread and bacon, exclaimed enthusiastically: "All fucking mighty Gods! That's breakfast!"

"Rather than blaspheme, young man, thank old Angus who provided us all this good fare." (barring the load I was silly enough to carry on slippery slopes, at extreme risk of breaking my neck) he added to himself, a bit gloomily.

Bodie happily dug his buttered toast into the creamy, fluffy mound of scrambled eggs. "Who's Angus?"

"Angus MacFarlane, my cousin, as I told you. Or, more accurately, my father's brother-in-law. I always called him "cousin" but he's my uncle by marriage actually."

Swallowing a double portion of eggs and bacon on fried bread, Bodie seemed to consider the question: "Your father's name's Cowley, I take it? Doesn't sound very Scottish; English, rather. So, you've got relatives by marriage in Scotland but you're not a Scot yourself?"

Cowley spluttered, almost choking on his tea. When he was able to speak again, his voice was vibrating with indignation. «What d'you mean, relatives by marriage? My mother was a MacFarlane too, from another branch, my father's mother a MacGregor from both sides, my mother's mother a Lamont and a MacLaren, and you can pretty well go back to Middle Ages that way..." He stopped, feeling silly as he caught sight of a twinkling in Bodie's eyes. The boy was teasing him.

Which, again, raised his suspicion. Sure, he had told Bodie "I am a Scot." But that was in the London military hospital; never since had he hinted anything about his origins, except that he had relatives in Scotland. "And what do you know about Scotland anyway?"

Bodie shrugged: "No more than I do about my past or anything else; I could well be Scottish myself, for all I know."

Cowley snorted with affected disdain; "Not with that Paddy mug of yours."

"I assume that statement was meant to be derogatory?" Bodie articulated in a plummy voice.

Taken aback by this odd display of pedantry coming from a young hobo, and vaguely ashamed of himself, Cowley opted for self-derision: "Not in the least, some of my best friends are Irish, you know..."

It was said quite playfully but Bodie didn't let himself be disarmed so easily; "I don't doubt it; and some others are Jewish, I'm assured."

At that, Cowley growled: "Stop it now! I don't need lessons from you, especially on that ground."

They stared at each other, neither willing to yield. Cowley won, to his own surprise. He felt better and spoke more gently.

"You've still a few things to learn, laddie. And first: how to give and take as gentlemen do in society. If you can't take a joke for a joke..."

"Oh, I can. Except when the joke is a racist slur."

Cowley frowned. "Don't start me again on this. There was nothing of the sort in my mind. Why did you react that way? Are you Irish?"

Bodie sighed. "How many times must I repeat it? I've not the least idea who I am and where I'm coming from."

Cowley feigned to study his guest's features keenly: "You could well be half-Scottish after all. Are you certain your name is Bodie?"

"Yes," Bodie replied firmly. "Bodie's my name."

"Bodie, not Brodie?"

Bodie looked amazed. "Why do you say that?"

"There's very little difference in pronunciation and it's not infrequent that spelling gets done wrong when transcribed on a birth certificate."

"But why do you suppose such a thing?"

Actually, this was precisely what Cowley was wondering. "Oh, I was simply thinking of the Brodie clan of Moray; it's a very old and honourable lineage."

Bodie laughed softly. "If you absolutely want to count me among your innumerable cousins, I won't object. Don't care. I'm sure I always was called Bodie, though."

"Good to have this one certainty, at least." Cowley's smile was genuine. The mood between them was getting lighter and almost friendly in spite of their previous clash. His, by no means involuntary, "blunder" had provided him some interesting pieces of information: whatever his later way of life had been, the lad had received a fairly good education.

Something he wasn't exactly showing at the moment. After he had wolfed down the greater part of the eggs and bacon and most of the toasts, he was pouring a flood of cocoa powder, directly from the box into his bowl of oatmeal, generously adding more hot milk and a large spoonful of honey.

"What are you doing?" Cowley asked, aghast.

"I like chocolate."

"Me too but not in porridge!"

"Too bad you don't," Bodie replied placidly. And he set about swilling down the disgusting mixture.

Ever since their arrival the door had been left unlocked and Bodie's knowing gaze was proof he had noticed. Not that a door would have stopped him, had he attempted to flee, but that was sort of symbolic…

Eventually Cowley decided there was no reason they couldn't pay a courtesy visit to his cousin. He owed him that much. Bodie looked peaceful and rational enough now, though still apparently amnesic. If in itself this rapid return to normal could have meant something suspicious in Cowley's eyes, it was in no way threatening – at least not for the moment - and, besides, he could put to use Angus' sharp mind and experience of men in those matters. The old man had been the first to introduce him to the military intelligence career and he trusted him completely.

«Fancy a walk?» he asked as they were finishing their lunch.

«I had a walk,» Bodie replied, swallowing his last bite of an apple. He threw the core over his shoulder through the window behind and spat a pip into his dish, ignoring his companion's deep frown.

Actually Cowley had let him go to the nearby river while he himself was busy checking the fishing equipment in the adjoining tools shed. And the boy had come back on time, proudly waving two small trout skewered on a sharpened twig. Cowley had told him in no uncertain terms what he thought of such a barbaric way of fishing; Bodie had agreed, and eaten both fish merrily.

«We're going to see Angus Mac Farlane,» Cowley said sharply, «to thank him for his generous hospitality. I expect you to behave properly...if you haven't lost all notion of what's considered to be civilized manners in this country.»

«I'll behave,» Bodie promised, «Scout's honour!» Cowley's glare made him lower his gaze. «Seriously, I don't mean to stir up any trouble. We've an agreement and I'll keep to it. What d'you think? That I would run away with the silverware?»

This wasn't to be dignified with an answer. Cowley went back to the tools shed to fix the fishing rods while Bodie obediently helped by cleaning the small boat. And so, later in the afternoon, after a much faster and easier climb up the same forest path they had so painfully walked down the night before, they had showed themselves at the farm's main door, quickly ushered in by Bart, Angus' handyman and former orderly.

"Good evening, Major. Glad to see you."

"Me too, Bart, thanks for the express supply; it was really helpful. And how's Martha doing?"

"Fine and dandy, as I am," grinned the old man, "Now busy in the kitchen cooking her famous pie."

"Wait, we aren't –"

"Yes, you are!" Bart's grin widened. Martha will never forgive you if you don't stay for dinner. You wouldn't disappoint Martha and the Captain, would you?"

"How's my cousin?" Cowley said hastily, before Bart, who had known him in short trousers, could forget what was left of his military sense of etiquette and go all familiar in Bodie's presence. Last time he had argued with him, the man had called him a scallywag.

"Ah, ah, same question, same answer," was the reply, "Fine and dandy, as I said. He's waiting for you in the main lounge."

The house was large and ancient. More a mansion than a farm, though it had been built as one two centuries ago. Cowley vaguely wondered how Angus, who wasn't as affluent as his family used to be, could still afford the repairs and the wages of two full time servants. The post-war tax laws had made it impossible for most people. Probably he wasn't paying them any longer and the three of them were living in a sort of fraternal community, not mentioning the four legged members. Which, at the moment, were barking and hopping madly all around as they entered the room.

"Rover, Rascal, quiet…sit down!"

Angus Mac Farlane got up briskly from his seat to welcome them. He was slightly taller than Bodie, Cowley noticed, and his bony face was getting gaunter with years. But Bart was right: the old man's stance radiated strength and health. He was centenarian material, if anything.

"Thanks a lot, Angus. My apologies for requesting your help at such short notice."

"Never mind, you know you can count on me. And I understand there were quite special circumstances." He gave Bodie the professional once-over from under bushy brows. "So, this is our unexpected guest?"

"You may call him that, at least no stowaway: Wasn't exactly willing. Were you?" This got a pout from Bodie, who suddenly looked a very young and rebellious schoolboy.

"Anyway, be welcome at Stronchuillin, young man."

"My name's Bodie," said Bodie firmly.

"So he said," Cowley commented dryly; "that's unfortunately the only thing he seems to know about himself."

Angus' expression was all benevolence and sympathy, if you didn't consider the sharpness of the penetrating blue gaze, so similar to Cowley's, while he was taking in Bodie's features and bearing.

"Don't worry, lad; you have plenty of time to work it through, with my cousin's help." He smiled encouragingly. "And mine," he added. _Hell, no_, thought Cowley, _the point is we __**do not**__ have all the time in the world, maybe very little time, and Angus should know that_. The truce he had negotiated couldn't last forever. But he didn't want to break the flimsy bond of trust that Angus was trying to build with the boy; he kept his reflections to himself. The vague, half-baked plan he'd had in mind when he had decided to ask for his cousin's help was taking shape nicely but he wasn't sure now was the right time to disclose it.

A while later, greetings and introductions duly done, they settled in front of a roaring fire, sipping hot strong tea with a tray of light snacks, keenly watched upon by over-friendly dogs, Rover sitting by Bodie's side and Rascal sprawled on Cowley's feet.

"Don't feed the dogs!" warned Cowley as he caught a glimpse of a buttered crumpet being swiftly slipped into the big spaniel's mouth.

"Good advice" agreed Angus, "but too late: I'm afraid they've already been irredeemably spoilt by Martha." He smiled, "Rover likes you, Bodie; still one more crumpet and you won't be able to get rid of him. You'll be smothered with canine love."

"No need of crumpets for that," grumbled Cowley, tugging at Rascal's long ears to push him aside. The smaller spaniel yawned, turned round and get back to position on the other side. "And take this feline off me!" Disturbed by the move, a large ginger cat had leaped from under the next seat right onto Cowley's lap.

"Poppy, get down! George, really, I hope you're more patient with men than with animals."

"Hardly," dared Bodie, and Cowley glared at him while Angus winked.

"I'm not used to living in a zoo."

"That's the town mouse visiting the country mouse, eh?"

"Speaking of which, have you renewed your fishing licence this year?"

They talked of trite, innocuous topics, like the weather, hunting and fishing, various family events, the promising future of Angus' two oldest grandsons, respectively in New-Zealand's sheep farming and the service of HM in a ruinously distinguished regiment. Bodie behaved alright, though not in a very communicative way, and visibly bored, but suffering patiently. Cowley was wondering if they would ever come to the point.

He cast a sidelong glance at Angus. All that idle chit-chat was probably meant to be soothing and reassuring to his reluctant guest. Sure, he was willing to let Angus play his part as he felt proper but he was still growing impatient. He hadn't had time to present him with all aspects of the situation the previous day and, of course, there was no telephone in the lodge. Yet he had no doubt his cousin was able to guess what was expected of him without much explanation. Angus **was** sharp. In the narrow and very discreet circles where he was still known, he had won the fame of a true spy mastermind. Few also remembered he had been, back in his time, a pioneer in some weird fields of psychological research. Something Cowley intended to remind him about. Soonest.

But Bodie preceded him. "What precisely is this help you're offering me?" he asked warily in the middle of a totally unrelated war-time tale from the old man.

MacFarlane considered him intently for a while. "Do you really want to recover your memory?" Bodie flinched. "I – don't know," he said; not for the first time, Cowley noticed. "You have to be willing and work for it. There's really nothing I can do for you in your own place."

Bodie seemed to be inwardly wriggling under the pressure of two piercing gazes boring through him mercilessly. "Er, I understand that. I just… feel that way. It's odd, yeah; I…don't know why…,"

"Come on, man," Cowley snapped, "you can't postpone this much longer. Soon we'll have all Her Majesty's services laying into us again. And you promised to cooperate, remember," he added, more gently.

"I remember," Bodie said weakly, his morning perkiness vanished altogether.

"That was the condition for your release, and for my protection."

"Thanks so very much! Who's going to protect me from you?"

"You've nothing to fear from us, you're not in the claws of the MI6 bloodhounds any more. But you could be sent back to them directly if you linger too much."

"I just need to know what you intend to do with me, that's all."

"That's only too natural," Angus interfered in his strangely appeasing voice, "perfectly legitimate demand, son; you've a right to ask, and the more so since nothing is achievable without your consent."

"So, what's it about?"

"Nothing extraordinary, nothing dangerous: basically hypnosis with add-ons."

Cowley wondered about the adds. He'd had no time to discuss the details with Angus when they had talked on the phone. He had just assumed he could rely upon his cousin to deal with the necessary.

Bodie, obviously, didn't share this point of view. He stared at Cowley: " You told me you wouldn't use the same methods they did at Repton, that I wouldn't be forced. I can do without still another shrink."

"I'm not a shrink," Angus protested, just an honest to God Navy officer with an interest in psychology."

"You can trust my cousin," Cowley said curtly.

"I'm pretty sure hypnosis wasn't used on you," explained MacFarlane, "or if it was, it failed, because it's not possible to get hypnosis working without the subject's consent." Looking through Bodie's eyes, he added with conviction: «If you **do not want** to get your memory back, whatever the reason, you won't. But think a bit more about it. A man without a past is only half-living, and has a most uncertain future."

"I'm afraid he may even have no future at all," was Cowley's grim comment.

"Tut-tut, don't frighten the boy, George, it's not the best way of achieving what has to be done."

"Which is?" Cowley's impatience was resurfacing in spite of all his best intentions.

"Proceedings that take time. Like awakening, one by one, the several spots of consciousness that are now deep asleep, re-connecting together the brain's areas that have been shut down by, let's say: fear, anger, pride, whatever; the need to keep in control struggling with the survival instinct, the whole emotional complex."

"I thought it was mainly due to chemicals." Cowley didn't want to be carried too far along the psychology path.

"If his state of amnesia was only a side-effect of the chemicals he'd absorbed, it would have receded as they have been drained out of his system."

"Have they been?"

"Maybe not completely, but for the most part, yes. The boy's awareness and rationality is fairly good, I reckon. As much as I can tell without further examination, he seems to have recovered all his abilities and skills, minus the memory of past events."

"Eh!" Bodie broke in, "I'm here! May I have a word?"

"Sure," Angus smiled. "We're not trying to dismiss you, lad. I just wanted to make a few points clear before proposing a process."

"Proposing to me or proposing to your cousin?"

"Both. Aren't you working together on this? But first to you, of course."

"What **is** my choice exactly? A soft brain-washing with you two against a hard brain-raking with the others?"

"That's the idea," said Cowley, flatly

"No, it's not!" Indignation in Angus' voice sounded sincere. Cowley himself might have been convinced, had he not known the old fox so well. "The process involved in hypnosis has nothing to do with brainwashing or any form of mind abuse or manipulation; in a way, it's almost the opposite; you can describe it more accurately as an inner journey to self-knowledge and self-repossession. "

"But you **do** have to manipulate your patient to extract what you want from him, don't you?" From Bodie's tone, it was more an assertion than a question.

"No, all I have to do is to guide him from the outside through the maze of his own inner self; I am Ariadne's thread; the only real actor is the subject, nothing can be done against his will. Be sure of that."

"The only thing I know for sure is you want information from me."

"Yes, and you need help from us." Cowley cut, sharp. He had easily jumped back into the familiar 'good cop/bad cop' pattern. "Isn't that a fair trade?"

"So, I was right; I have no choice." He looked away, expressionless.

Bodie was yielding, however bitterly. Cowley's bluntness appeared to be more effective than MacFarlane's kindness and diplomacy, Cowley noted with satisfaction. The forlorn look on Bodie's face was disturbing though. Not minding the dynamic reversal, he gently patted the big, strong hand laying on the close-by armrest. "Don't be afraid. Just prove to me you're doing everything you can and I will provide you all the help that's in my power. And, don't be mistaken: that's not a little."

Bodie faced him back again and said hesitantly: "Even if there's no result?"

Cowley fastened his grip on Bodie's hand: " I give you my word: Be faithful to me and I won't let you down, whatever the case." Those were words he would later wish he had never pronounced.

He missed Angus' stunned look because his eyes were riveted to Bodie's. The boy relaxed and smiled, with plain trust. "I'll do everything I can."

"So, we have a deal," MacFarlane stated. "When do you want to start?"

"As soon as possible," replied Cowley, "tomorrow morning".

Bodie said nothing and MacFarlane watched him attentively.

"I see no reason to rush things. You need a rest; I need preparation. I suggest two days off: the weather is fine; go for a walk, go fishing, go boating; just don't worry, don't think about the forthcoming job if you can help it, enjoy your free time and relax."

Bodie grinned, Cowley frowned. As pleasant as this program was, or would have been in other circumstances, he **was** worried about the waste of time. But maybe Angus was right: Bodie didn't look tired (ah, to be twenty four again!); he had gone through a lot though, and his good will deserved a reward.

"All right, Angus, we'll be here on Monday morning, nine sharp."

MacFarlane laughed. "Did I misread something, George? I thought **I** was the man in charge."

"No, you're only Captain."

"Still the same impetuous, disrespectful imp of old, eh? OK, major. But I want something from Bodie in the meantime."

"What?" asked Bodie and Cowley at the same time.

"He must take four or five cups a day of a special herb tea I'll order Martha to fix upon my prescription."

Herb tea? MacFarlane had always been an eccentric and a seeker of long-lost knowledge. Had he turned into a village healer in his old age?

"I don't want to take drugs."

"Yes, Angus; I promised he wouldn't have to absorb any other psycho-active substance as long as I assume the responsibility for his treatment. And the responsibility, I do keep it.

"Well, any substance is psychoactive, beginning with the caffeine and the carbohydrates you just took in; but I can certify that my mixture is totally innocuous; its only purpose is to relax, soothe the tensions of body and mind, appease the bouts of anxiety. For, it's evident that no effective work can be achieved if the subject's consciousness is fighting the process, out of fear and distrust.

"I want to know the components."

"You can have the recipe, no problem. You can also share the potion with Bodie if you want to experiment the effects on you." Angus chuckled; "maybe you should. I feel you very tense, cousin. It would do you a world of good!"

End of Chapter Five


	6. Chapter 6

**Out of the Dark**

**Chapter Six**

The famous pie was indeed a monument. Its tender core of game and beer gravy delivered fully what its golden crispy crust promised. The whole meal was a triumph for the cook. It was served in the dining room with some old-fashioned formality and eaten with great appetite by three starving men.

_A treat well earned_, thought Cowley, discreetly rubbing his sore leg under the table, _The vain old git didn't spare us a rose bush or a broom cupboard_.

Hardly an exaggeration; after a thorough sight-seeing tour of the building for Bodie's sake, they had had a long walk along the upper part of the river (more of a burn at that level) followed by a lazy stroll in the garden where the blossom's fragrance of the May roses was overwhelming.

Bodie had recovered some of his previous cheerfulness. He looked peaceful and relaxed enough, as if he was coming to terms with the odds and hazards of his current predicament. He talked with Angus, quite amiably and desultorily, about various topics: boats, fishing, sports in general and the military career.

«You look very fit, and apt for the service, Bodie: no way you could apply though, if you don't manage to retrieve your memory and to clear your legal situation, except, of course if you intend to enter the Foreign Legion. »

« Foreign Legion » seemed to stir something in Bodie's mind. But it was just a brief glimmer in the misty blue gaze.

« Rings a bell? » asked Angus.

« No, not really. I've heard of it, sure; they're very tough and professional. »

« They would certainly recruit you without question. »

Cowley cut in sharply. « Wait a minute, Angus! He's just back home in Britain and you want to pack him off to the Frogs? »

Angus laughed. « Pooh, pooh, cousin! What do you make of the Auld Alliance? »

"Leave it to historians."

"Still, aren't we supposed to be allies?" Angus commented with a sly smile.

« Bollocks! Has it ever prevented rivalry? Take the Five Nations Championship. Would you let our good players go to the opposing team? »

« Perish the thought! » Angus protested, pleasantly, « Don't you dare say that to an old practising rugby man like me! » He turned to Bodie: « Do you like rugby, Bodie? »

« I **love** rugby, » replied Bodie enthusiastically, « I used to play scrum-half at school. » He stopped short, looking dumb, mouth open for a second.

Cowley growled, his suspicions rushing back at once: «If I find out you're trying to fool me…"

"Quiet, George; you'll scare the kid." _Oh no, Angus, not this avuncular tone with me, please... _

Bodie recovered his voice as quickly as his composure: "I'm not a kid and I'm not scared. I don't know where that comes from but, yes, I am sure I used to play rugby…" He paused and added hesitantly: "and cricket too, I think."

"Must have been a good school you were in," Angus remarked, thoughtfully.

"Eh, why not?" Bodie retorted good-humouredly, in his best plummy voice, "Do you mean you deem me unworthy?"

"Soon we'll learn he's an Eton old boy," Cowley quipped, not knowing why he was irked, " a pity it doesn't fit well with that trail of scouse I detect every time he opens his mouth…"

"I don't see why you take it that way, George; didn't you tell me two hours ago his name was the only thing he knew about himself? Well, the fog seems to be clearing a bit. There's some progress and this even before we've started anything. Shouldn't you find this encouraging?"

Actually that was all Cowley wished for, though he couldn't help resenting something in Bodie's bearing: was it his increasing assertiveness, or was it the good understanding he saw growing between Angus and him? _No, of course not, I wanted this. I hoped it would help and it does._

"I suppose you're right," he admitted reluctantly, "If we've been given the true story."

"Have you got any reason to doubt Bodie's word?"

"No!" Bodie exclaimed vehemently.

"Angus, really, is that a question people in our profession can ask?"

"Well, I'd say that, in our profession, systematic distrust is as much a cause of failure as credulity."

"I used to trust my friends and have had occasions to regret it." Cowley wondered if his voice sounded as bitter to others as it did to him. "That's in order; who can betray you but your friends?"

"You're not at risk with me then, since we're not friends."

Bodie's words and tone caught him unguarded and he recoiled, then lashed back. "Very true. So what?" he sneered. "What did you expect, sonny? A blood-bond oath?"

Bodie just stared at him uncomprehendingly and he strove to get a grip on himself. "We're both in a business agreement; you fulfill your part, I'll do mine: understood?"

Bodie nodded, curtly. His face was expressionless. Was he hurt? Cowley decided he didn't need to know.

"All I demand from you is honesty, but I want it complete. And be careful; you may perhaps deceive me once but not twice."

Bodie sighed. "If I wasn't aware of that, I wouldn't be here."

There was some reason in this argument. Cowley had no doubt that a man like the merc', with his wild past and his gambler, daredevil mindset, would find a way out of any trap, had he the will and the resources that a fully recovered memory would bring him back; just a phone call to the right contact would do, at least to attempt an hurried escape. On the other hand, the promised protection kept all his value regarding the future, but only if Cowley was still willing to warrant the man's good will to the authorities. Well, all being weighed, there was no mean to tell whether the scale was leaning toward trust or distrust.

" You've better convince me of it."

"I'm not lying" Bodie said simply.

Cowley bore his gaze into the other man's eyes, with the penetrating, fierce intensity that was so effective with suspects on interrogation. It was met with an unyielding stare and this time he was glad to be resisted. There was what looked like a genuine candour in those dark pupils, with a steadfast dignity he hadn't the heart to insult by questioning the boy's sincerity. Seemed the scale had swung on the trust side eventually.

He chastised himself inwardly about his misguiding temper. Angus was right: if they wanted results, and he had a hunch they'd need to get some soon, they had to bet on Bodie's loyalty.

"You don't believe me."

Cowley couldn't help a twinge of guilt at the quiet acceptance he heard in the subdued voice.

" Be happy I chose to believe you," he said gruffly, "as long as you don't give me motive to doubt you".

Bodie shrugged. "I know where my best interest is, if it's what you want to hear; Is that a language you understand?"

_Cheeky devil! You can't play demure more than ten seconds, can you?_ Guilt and compassion were gone. "Keep this healthy thought firmly in mind and we'll have some common ground to stand on."

"OK, you're the boss," Bodie's voice was weary, "You command, I obey; That's what you want? Fine with me."

"I've told you what I want: honesty, pure and simple. I need your commitment to the task and your full cooperation in the process."

"Well, you have it," Bodie sounded surprised and somehow relieved, "I've already given you my word on this long ago."

Angus was watching the exchange with an irritatingly knowing smile on his craggy face. "So, the deal is done, once and for all I hope. Now we can think of more serious matters: the dinner, for example. Am I the only one to be hungry?"

He certainly wasn't. The meal did wonders to perk up the mood of the guests, and so, two hours and something later, they were sitting in the lounge again, sipping a fairly decent brandy and talking quite peacefully about more innocuous topics, though still pretty controversial, like the compared merits of cognac and whisky. Nothing was said about the upcoming therapy session.

Before they left, Cowley managed to have a talk with Angus in private. He sent Bodie to the kitchen, to fetch a bag of fresh buns and scones, which Martha had insisted they took with them to the lodge for tea-time and breakfast, asking him to retrieve the herb mix Angus had ordered from the cook before their afternoon walk. He was thus assured to have at least half an hour to himself, enough to provide Angus with all the missing information about the case and to get from him all he needed to know about the upcoming treatment. It wasn't much, since Angus claimed he hadn't made his mind yet and wanted to use the two days break to think more about it and set up a plan.

The only definite part of it seemed to be the herbal potion, the components of which were as obscure to Cowley as Bodie's past was. Angus was adamant they were totally harmless, meant only to soothe and relax without dimming the subject's senses; on the contrary they were expected to quicken them, while broadening the scope of consciousness and activating the emotional levers of the memory.

Staring with suspicion at the sheet of paper in his hands, Cowley felt quite happy that he was **not** the intended subject of the experiment.

"You could take it yourself profitably," said Angus, answering a question he hadn't asked.

Cowley nodded vaguely, mumbling what could pass for acquiescence. _Keep trying,_ _cousin!_ Activating the emotional levers of his memories was the very last thing he needed. A selective oblivion pill would have much better suited him in his current state of mind.

The list of components was of little use to him; his botanical knowledge being about nil. These Latin names didn't speak to him, except a few of them - mostly ordinary cooking spices - and one, poetically named "Angelica Archangelica", which reminded him of either the green stems in candied fruits or an aromatic liquor used to flavour fruit salads and pastry on the continent.

Angus took one glance at his pinched features and correctly read his reluctance. "Some of those ingredients are not known by botanists; I mean, their existence is known, not their medicinal properties. Some others aren't known at all. It's a very complex formula I made up in collaboration with a few trusted correspondents I have on the five continents; took me ten years…"

That wasn't exactly the most reassuring of answers. Cowley scowled and Angus laughed. "Don't worry, it's been duly tested, for many years and by many people, me first."

"Are you afraid of being hit by a sudden bout of amnesia? Not a very frequent affliction, that." Cowley was genuinely perplexed; the idea seemed absurd and Angus certainly wasn't the anxious type.

"Frequent, amnesia's not, but common loss of memory is a disgrace that all people my age have to fear and, frankly, I don't want to end my life too unbecomingly."

"You must be kidding!" Cowley exclaimed with feeling, "You're stronger than I am and there's no incidence I know of in your family…"

"Well, I don't want to take the risk. 'Wait and see' has never been my motto. Anyway, this concoction is not primarily aimed at maintaining or restoring ageing people's memory; it's a complete tonic for the nervous system as a whole, apt to boost, repair, soothe and equilibrate in the same time."

"You're all set to make a fortune with it," said Cowley with the faintest touch of irony, "given the current demographic trends in industrialised countries."

The mild mockery was lost on his cousin, who answered with didactical sternness. "I'm not ready yet to launch it on the public market; that would mean the stuff to be made in a more stable and practical form: as pills or elixir, but it seems to be more efficient as an herb tea, taken regularly with small repeated doses throughout the day."

"Efficient against amnesia?" Cowley's doubts were clearly audible in his voice.

"I don't know yet; as you just said, amnesia isn't a common affliction. We'll see if it works in the case of your young 'protégé'."

Cowley winced. "I see, looks like I'm providing you the convenient lab rat you needed to complete your experiment protocol."

"Not in the least," Angus replied severely, "amnesia wasn't included in the initial protocol; I'm simply trying to help; keep that in mind."

Bodie's coming through with the supply put an abrupt end to the two men's conversation, sparing them any further exchange of sour comments. The familiar double-act over, each part played to their mutual satisfaction, they took leave of each other very cordially.

Bart was nowhere to be seen; they were escorted to the door by the dogs, Rascal pressing against Cowley's bad leg and Rover's wet nose nudging Bodie's palm affectionately.

Cowley couldn't help lightly pinching the strings of the tall, ancient ebony harp that adorned the hall for as long as he remembered. The clear liquid sound took him back to a time, long past, when Frannie was a sweet young lass and Doug was alive. He shivered.

"Do you play the harp?" Bodie didn't look really interested.

"No; my sister did. I was supposed to play the piano (_and Doug the violin_, he thought but didn't say). Old family tradition" He shrugged. "There's not much of it left, I'm afraid."

During most of the walk down to their place, he kept silent.

Back to the lodge Cowley made a bee-line to the Laphroig bottle (he equally hated port and brandy, which his cousin favoured at dinner).

"It's chilly here," remarked Bodie, sniffing. "And damp too."

"Man, you're repeating yourself; already heard that song." Cowley was in no mood to put up with a fussing Bodie.

"Well, it **is** chilly and damp." Bodie pouted, childlike, irking the older man still more.

"Yes, it is; and it's going to be so every night till mid-Summer, if not later, so you've better getting used to it..."

" Is that a clever way of enticing me to mend the heater?" It was said with a smile meant to alleviate the tension between them and Cowley relaxed slightly.

"If you wish to. Feel free to exercise your mechanical talents tomorrow but, for the moment, content yourself with lighting the fire; we could do with a nice little blaze."

"OK; and I could do with a nice little glass of whisky." He cast a hopeful glance towards the bottle the other man still held, somehow reverently. Cowley glared at him.

"This is not 'whisky'; it's a sixteen years old, pure single malt Islay."

"Whatever, I feel like I could enjoy some of it just now."

Cowley snorted. "Seems you're forgetting something;"

"?" the crooked eyebrow rose heavenward to the close-cropped hairline.

"Angus' herbal potion." Cowley recalled, mercilessly.

"Oh, no!"

"Oh, yes. You promised, just a couple of hours ago, remember?"

Bodie's sigh could have blown the sails of a small ship.

"Potion first, scotch later." Cowley's tone was final.

"As a counter-poison?" But the humorous retort fell flat.

"Stop being childish. Start the fire while I'm making the tea," Cowley ordered.

"If we can call this stuff tea," Bodie commented gloomily, accepting defeat.

"Things are what we call them," Cowley stated philosophically. "Go and fetch more wood from the shed." He took the bag of thinly cut and crushed-to-powder dried herbs from the supplies lying on the table and went to the kitchen, not looking back, with the certainty of a man used to being obeyed. As he was.

The preparation was of the easiest kind: a simple concoction of two big spoonfuls of the powder in a small quantity of water to make a concentrated, thick liquid, which could be used fractionally all through the day by addition of more hot water. The dark, red-brown colour, too similar to dried blood, wasn't - to be frank - very appetizing, but the smell, spicy and aromatic, wasn't too vile. Cowley poured the prescribed dose into a decorative wooden bowl he had found on the shelf above the cooker (the ordinary cups and mugs looking way too small) and filled up the odd container with the strange mixture. Remembering Bodie's exhibition with the porridge at breakfast, he added a large spoonful of honey.

When Cowley came back, a joyful fire was dancing in the hearth and Bodie was brooding. "Cheer up, laddie; this is your long-life elixir."

Bodie tilted his head interrogatively. "Long memory, you mean?"

"Well, according to Angus, as well as boosting the memory brain cells, it has all sorts of toning, revitalising properties."

"Yes, I remember him advising you to take it as well: Would do you a world of good, eh?"

Cowley wondered if that was to be taken as an unflattering allusion to his age or physical condition. "I'm not the patient here; my memory is only too keen, I think I can live without it."

"Without your memory?"

"Don't be silly!" snapped Cowley, irked again by the display of childishness from the young man. Who didn't seem to be kidding, though.

"As for me, I begin to suspect I really could live without my memory," Bodie said softly.

Cowley strangled a sudden pang of sadness. "Out of the question, we've an agreement."

"Yes, and our agreement included that I wouldn't be submitted to any more drugs", Bodie reminded him with reproach. Cowley protested:

"Chemical drugs! You agreed on this innocuous herb potion."

Bodie sniggered: "Innocuous? I don't even know what's in it!"

"Neither do I, not precisely anyway." Cowley's short stock of patience was running thin. He hammered, "I trust Angus and you have to trust me."

Bodie stood up, facing him, and looked steadily through his eyes "I'll trust you if you drink it with me, before me preferably."

Cowley remained silent a long while. He wasn't able to find a sound reason not to comply with Bodie's wish. The young man was still staring at him expectantly. Without a word he brought the bowl to his lips and drank a large amount of its content. The taste was spicy and tangy, with a note of bitterness and, underneath, the warm mellowness of honey. It was burning hot too; so, unthinkingly, he breathed on its surface as his mother used to do with his 'good night' mug of milk. Then, still wordless, he handed it to Bodie.

Bodie took the goblet and drank the rest of the potion in a single long gulp while looking at his companion with an odd expression on his face. Suddenly he offered a broad grin.

"Just hope it's not a love philtre," he said.


	7. Chapter 7

There are few things more irritating than having your ears savagely assaulted by cheerful off-key whistling, while painfully striving to get fully awake on a bleak rainy day, feeling lousy and wearing a damp bathrobe. The fact that a fire in the hearth was crackling its way to a new life was not a sufficient solace.

Morosely sipping his morning tea, Cowley looked up at a beaming Bodie dangerously looming over him while holding a tray loaded with sizzling fried eggs, fried bread, fried bacon, fried everything.

"You're up bright and early today. Had a good night's sleep?" he asked acidly.

"Yeah, better than yours, I guess."

Cowley stared at him, silent. Bodie smiled. "I nearly came to your rescue. Do you often have these nightmares?"

"Never." That was true – almost. It had not happened for a long time: in the aftermath of the war, as he was mourning Doug's death and another loss, no less painful for being mute. Since then, nothing, not even the bitter legacy of Korea: a grievous wound and the experience of captivity, had managed to stir the ghosts of the past from their slumber. Well, not often anyway. "_Activating__the__emotional__levers__of__the__memory__"__,__indeed!_

Bodie's thoughts had followed the same path. "Seems your elixir of doom worked beyond all expectations. On you at least."

"And not on you? What have you been dreaming about?"

Bodie made a face, sheepish and smug at the same time. "You're embarrassing me."

"I've no interest in your lubricious fantasies. However, if you can recognise the woman..."

"Did I say it was a woman?"

Cowley glared at him. "Whoever. Who was it?"

Bodie sobered. "Yes, it was a woman. No, I didn't recognise her. You know: one female's private parts look like any other female's private parts."

"Mind your language, man!" Cowley was still shocked in spite of all these years spent in mainly male company. He hated curses and obscenities equally.

"What? I was very polite. I didn't use any dirty words."

True enough, 'private parts' sounded almost quaint; at least he was spared 'pussy' and 'cunt' or whatever the latest fad in porn slang was. He scolded himself. Who was he to think he had any right to censure a twenty-four-years-old boy's sexual urges?

"Sit down and have your tea; it's getting lukewarm."

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Before Cowley could ask, he added: "The elixir of doom. Am I not supposed to take it before breakfast?"

"Whenever you like, providing it's at least three times a day. Eat first; all that greasy stuff will taste awful when cold." As the young man was complying earnestly, he corrected: "By the way, it's a herbal tea, not an elixir".

"Whatever, it's a drug."

"You seem to tolerate it well." He bit his lip briefly, expecting a repeat of the too easy retort 'better than you, apparently' and felt grateful when it didn't come. He hastily offered "The taste's not too bad."

"I don't dislike it. And it makes me feel good."

_Lucky__you,_thought Cowley.

Still focused on his plate, Bodie cast a side-ways glance at him. "You wouldn't have another try at it, would you?"

"Not on your life!"

"Too bad, since I said I'd drink it on one condition only, that you'd share it with me."

"Only the first time."

"Hmm, I don't remember any such restriction."

"But you just said you liked the effect it has on you. And you must know by now there is no risk drinking it." Cowley was annoyed to hear a hint of desperation in his voice.

"I know nothing of the sort. I don't know anything about the possible long-term side-effects. Anyway you promised".

"I didn't."

"You did."

They were at stalemate now. Ridiculous. There were any number of actions Cowley would be able and willing to undertake in order to reach his goals but forcing hot tea down the throat of a brawny young scoundrel wasn't one of them. He made a last attempt: "I'll share it with you once more today but only once and, if that spoils my sleep again tonight, I won't do it a third time." He pleaded, shamelessly: "You can't expect me to lie awake in pain while you sleep like a baby and dream about strange women."

Bodie laughed. "I'm not that cruel." His eyes had a slightly slanted curve when he laughed and his nostrils flared a little, like a skittish, unbroken yearling shunning the bridle. It made him look more dangerous than cheerful. It suited him. "If you take it with me morning and midday, I'm willing to spare you at night."

So, once again the deal was done and in the wee bastard's favour. Cowley gave up and drank half the content of the wooden bowl when they shared it, minutes later. It felt sweeter and less strange than the first time; the balsamic scent was soothing, comforting even.

He went to the window and breathed a whiff of cool air. "What would you like to do now?" The sky had cleared, the rain had stopped; there was a timid rainbow over the hills.

Drinking such nectar from a tin tumbler was borderline sacrilegious. Wishing he could admire its rich, purple shade, Cowley smelled his wine with a reverence almost equal to that he would have awarded a great Islay malt. Unlike port, a really good wine was a treat he could appreciate once in a while. And, sure, cousin MacLaren was a true expert in matters of vintage: this venerable "Hospices de Beaune" 1959 was a pure marvel. Which would have deserved crystal and fine linen, not a rough, silt-smelling plank.

For they were now seated at each end of an old and decayed looking (but, hopefully, still safe) wooden boat and the bottle was the last remnant of a copious picnic. Bodie's idea, of course: a picnic on wet grass and slippery gravel, under dripping trees or in the shelter of a dim shack was not exactly the kind of fun a semi-crippled old soldier would seek after. But Bodie had been respectfully persistent and had suggested the boat as their refuge. Not very comfortable, assuredly, but pleasant now that the sun was shining and a light breeze had replaced the morning rain.

Cowley's mood was fast improving in accordance with the weather and the good fare, not to mention the good booze. Or was it the potion reversing its effects eventually? MacFarlane had hinted something about a "purgative" phase of emotional turmoil preceding the "re-equilibrating" process. He could see nothing remotely "emotional" on the placid face of his young companion. As for him, he could only hope last night's spooky performance had exhausted the "purgation" part, allowing his – still steady – mind-control to push back the spooks to the bat-cave where they belonged.

The Burgundy was a nice addition anyway, he nodded to himself; this bottle had been shaken and carried around enough: it just cried out to be drunk. And so it had been, with due respect. From him at least.

The wine, as it stood, was not the only cause of his current state of bliss: it was for Cowley an unmitigated pleasure to watch Bodie rowing and sweating while he lay back, savouring his drink. Though, when you looked at it more keenly, the man wasn't sweating, actually, but moving gracefully, with smooth, effortless efficiency. The broad shoulders and strong arms, rising and lowering rhythmically, were a pleasant sight to behold from his half-reclining position. The tough and creaky leather cushion on which he was resting smelt of mould, mice droppings and fox piss; save of it, everything was perfect.

Once again Bodie read his thoughts. "It's just as well the motor-boat wasn't working properly after all; I needed the workout; was getting rusty".

"You'll have all the exercise you want if we go fly-fishing for trout in the river. But to get to the best spots, on the other side of the loch, the motor boat would be more convenient."

"I can fix it, no bother; I'll do it this evening if we're not back too late."

"Don't forget there's no power in the boat house."

"Don't need it; it's mostly about deep cleaning and oiling, but I need light of course. Hmm, I think I'll take the motor to the lodge."

"**That** will be an exercise, indeed!"

"Easier than dragging the smaller boat from the lodge to the pier."

"We could use the trailer. However, the track's overgrown and the wee boat's not really big enough for two grown men and their kit."

"Really? So, why did you made me clean it yesterday?"

"Ah, son; you looked like you were sorely wanting a little healthy physical exercise. You just admitted as much. Idleness is the mother of all vices, or so they say."

Bodie sighed in disgust. "I can think of better ways to spend my time. And, speaking of which, what are we doing now?"

"Are you tired of the loch already?" He let his gaze wander to the majestic landscape around them: he wouldn't get tired of it, should he live a thousand years. No need to share this bout of national pride with the young scamp, though. "Bored? Isn't the view spectacular enough?"

"It's magnificent, all right," Bodie agreed, sounding indifferent "It's just we've been here for two hours and a half, going round in circles."

"Not quite. We had lunch. And I must remind you this was your suggestion. Why I complied is beyond me!" The brat had successfully managed to spoil the mood.

Said brat flashed him an impish look: "I know why. The magic potion was actually meant for you, not me; see: it's made you almost civil." The smirk widened into a grin. Blinding.

Cowley blinked and swallowed back the biting retort he had on the tip of his tongue. He had a hunch, experience fed, that a direct run-in was not the key to the inner recesses of Bodie's psyche.

"You might be right," he said flatly, "so enjoy it while it lasts." He sipped the last drop of his wine. "What exactly have you in mind?"

"It's too late or too soon to start fishing in this area, especially now we've put all the little water people on red alert. We could still have a try, so long as you don't count on fish for dinner."

But Bodie's interest had shifted back to the motor boat, insisting he should have another look at it while there was still enough light in the boat house, as it was poorly lit through two high, narrow windows. As expected, the damned engine had persisted in its non-cooperative ways, showing there was more to it than a need for deep cleaning and oiling. The necessary tools weren't there, so the repair had to be postponed.

All the same, why so eager a concern from the man for the only fast means of transport available in the vicinity? Cowley stifled the familiar rush of suspicion and firmly reminded himself he had decided to trust Bodie, if only for the simple reason he had no working alternative.

And yet, he unthinkingly wrapped his fingers around the small metallic bottle he still kept in his trouser pocket: a nifty medical device, meant for wild animals in cages, which in a split second, could eject a needle and deliver its load of stun-serum; a nasty thing he hoped never to use again.

Unaware of this turmoil, Bodie was rubbing his dirty hands with a dirtier rag, and whistling more off-key than ever. Cowley hardly recognized the atrocious rendition of "Auld Lang Syne".

"Stop murdering that innocent tune, Bodie, and drop that filthy thing."

"But there's nothing to wash yourself with in this shack: no towel, no soap, not even a bucket of water," Bodie complained, in the irritating childish tone he too often affected.

"The place is seldom used, Bodie. Actually I'm even surprised the engine had been left on the boat." Waving to the open door, he scoffed. "I can't offer you the scented soap and lush towel you require for your creature comforts but, regarding the water, I can see plenty of it outside."

"The silt round the pier?"

"The water in the river, pure enough to be the abode of many happy, healthy trout."

"And, gee-whizz, quite tasty they are too, I'll give you that." Bodie winked, mood changing again from cloudy to sunny as quickly as a Scottish sky, "I'd gladly have another go at them."

"Not by your method, Bodie"

"Okay, as a matter of fact, I'll vote for fly-fishing if I'm given a choice; no need for a boat. And that's sport."

"I agree to that. Maybe tomorrow morning. Not sure we've the proper bait though," he mused. "We could go back to the lodge by the river bank; it's a much longer way round than the path but it makes for a pleasant stroll and I can show you the best fishing spots."

'River' was a big word for the turbulent stream tumbling and cascading down from the heights of the mountain. Only a short length of it had enough depth for a flat-bottomed boat, and not all the time. But there and a little higher up the fish abounded.

To get to the bank they had to struggle through a thick tangle of bushes and bracken, which had overgrown the one-time path. "It wasn't as dense last summer," Cowley mumbled, "Bart used to trim it from time to time."

"I guess nobody is getting any younger with every passing year," Bodie quipped, which earned him a baleful glare from the older man. "I mean," he added hastily, "this fellow, Bart, looks even older than your cousin; You can't expect him to go hiking up and down the hills every two weeks, just to keep the path to the river free."

"You don't know the old goat, and Angus is just as bad; they'd out-breathe you."

"You're kidding."

"They would, both of them, and so would I," snapped Cowley, instantly regretting his outburst. The look of knowing indulgence on the boy's face was more hurtful than jibes.

Resolutely, he sank deeper into the rising tide of shrubbery and had the satisfaction of seeing that his young companion wasn't managing much better than he was in spite of his own game leg. Put to rest for a couple of hours in the boat, his knee was unusually compliant.

His good fortune lasted exactly two minutes. The morning downpour had in places turned the path into a slippery mix of sludge and rotting leaves. Skidding suddenly on a patch of mud, he tripped on a root, his foot caught in its snare, and dived forward, unable to hang on to the entwined twigs and branches that snapped and failed his grip. In the span of a split second, the time stretched as he desperately tried to wrench his body in order to spare his bad leg. He knew what was coming before he hit the ground. A white flame of pain seared through his brain, tearing along his nerves from the top of his skull to the tip of his toes, and back. Then, black out.

When he opened his eyes again, a blurry figure was looming over him far above, in a mist of dimly twinkling fireflies.

"Don't move." The voice was dulled too, sounding muffled and distant. "I must check nothing's broken."

"N...no, leave it, I'm alright," he croaked weakly, wondering why he felt obliged to offer the conventional crap. He was far from being alright, of course: he had landed on his hip, not his leg, thank God, but the commotion of his fall had shaken it hard, then the rebound as he rolled over had slammed his knee, his bad knee, against an outcrop of rock. The pain had been severe enough to make him faint and was now fast coming back, barely mitigated. He gritted his teeth. The greyish mist was dissipating and he could see, more distinctly, the worried and disapproving face of his rescuer.

"Nonsense; don't move and let me check."

Cowley bristled at the tone of command in the youth's voice; even in his current predicament of dimmed awareness, he resented the irreverence. Besides, he'd always hated being groped and pawed about, whatever the reason or the circumstances. He'd got his fair share of it while in the military. To suffer it now from a cheeky kid, unresisting, wasn't an option: he tried to sit up by resting on his good leg, wedging his left foot against a big stem and was swallowed at once by a wave of sharp pain. His foot now! He slumped back down in sheer misery.

"You, old fool!" Bodie exclaimed, affectionately.

He let go. Dazzled, he sensed strong, knowing hands unbuckling his belt, unbuttoning his shirt and lifting it open, pulling down his trousers, roaming along his limbs: swiftly first, then slowly, carefully, gently pressing on his chest, shoulders, hips, legs and feet, searching for signs of any abnormal torsion, bump or swelling. They were warm, skilful, healing hands. It hurt. It felt good. He loathed himself for feeling so good under the light but steady kneading of firm, rough fingers. It had been so long since the last time he had allowed himself to have male hands laid on him, working to give him pleasure…

Bodie stopped just before it all became **very** embarrassing.

"At first glance you don't seem to have anything broken. Yet your knee is getting pretty swollen and so's your ankle. And your left arm is badly bruised. You should have them X-rayed, just to be sure."

"That's out of the question."

"Don't be daft!"

"Don't be rude!"

"I only want to help: I'm not a doctor and you need to be taken care of by somebody more competent than I am."

"Angus is perfectly competent in those matters, I'll call him with the RT."

"We have to get back to the lodge first!"

That was the sorry fact. There was a steep hill to climb and it wasn't easy even for a fit walker. And he had now **two** gamy legs. Cowley felt suddenly terribly helpless...and very naked. At least he had recovered enough strength to get dressed on his own. Or so he thought. But simply sitting up and lifting himself from the ground to adjust his trousers needed a bodily support; with only his good knee and the opposite elbow left to use he could manage, but barely. However his injuries made his movements pretty awkward and, after two failed attempts, he had to accept Bodie's help. Standing up was quite another story. Jaw clenched in angry resolution, clutching Bodie's arm ferociously, he tried to rise by resting on his sound foot, but his knee yielded and he slumped into the young man's embrace. Bodie hauled him up and held him firmly.

"You stubborn old git! What do you think you're doing?"

"We **must** go back; I have to walk."

"No way! Your ankle may not be broken but you've probably sprained it, and your other leg isn't working either."

"There's no choice."

"Of course there is! Ever heard about what's called a 'fireman's lift'?"

_God forbid! That really would be the final blow._

"No, no and no! Anyway you're not able to carry me, that way or otherwise."

"Ah? Just try me!"

Staring up blankly at the overhanging foliage for a couple of minutes didn't bring any better ideas. Sending the boy alone to the farm for help? Or to the lodge as to fetch the RT? He was fairly sure Angus and Bart would be in town for the week's errands, not forgetting a stop at the local pub, as they used to do every Saturday, and wouldn't be back before dinner time. That would mean he had to spend long hours lying on that muddy ground in his now wet clothes. A sprained ankle was bad, but pneumonia was worse. As stubborn and prideful that George Cowley could be, stupid or unreasonable he was not.

So; he wasn't going to escape this. "Didn't you say not long ago you were getting rusty and you needed physical exercise?"

"Absolutely!" Bodie's smile was radiant.

"Well, it's a case of 'be careful what you wish for'."

"Don't fret; I won't let you down."

"In whatever sense you mean, I'll take you at your word."

"You can."

"Let it be so, then". In Cowley's mind it was the gloomy equivalent of "Alea jacta est".


	8. Chapter 8

«Try me,» he'd said.

No doubt, the man could deliver. In a swift move Cowley was hauled up by strong arms over broad shoulders. Suddenly he was taken back to another place, another time, when another man, as bold and brash as this one, and bigger, had risked everything and his life to get him free and safe from harm, a man who now was buried in his own skin, having lost everything but his life. He wondered what it was that was rooted so deep in some men's hearts to grow such loyalty; and whatever it was, if this was in Bodie's too.

He came back to the present. Bodie was progressing cautiously but steadily. There was a safer path along the river bank, free from branches and roots, if not from rocks and stones. The slope was steep though, and again Cowley marveled at the uncommon strength of body and will the young man had in him. Feeling so powerless under another man's total control was at the same time frightening and exhilarating. He didn't know whether he should fight it or enjoy it. To his utmost humiliation he was obliged to admit that his treacherous senses, at odds with the sounder part of his mind, were only craving for more bodily contact, more physical intimacy. The nervous tension was almost painful, overwhelming any other sensation from his bruised limbs.

«Need a break, don't you?» He was gently laid down on the ground, on a grassy spot, his back resting against a rock. He breathed deeply and looked up. Bodie had removed his own jacket and rolled up the felt-lined leather garment into a thick padding, to provide him a convenient cushion. «Whoof! It's hot.» Bodie was really sweating now, his brow shining with droplets of perspiration which ran freely, like unnoticed tears, over his grinning face. Yet, he wasn't out of breath, he didn't even look tired, just a little stiff. He sat close by and stretched himself to the brink, voluptuously, like a big domestic cat playfully responding to his master's caresses. Cowley turned his gaze away and swallowed, mouth dry. Weird how far an imagination let loose can drive a complacent mind to wander into the realm of fantasy. _Sick, __he __thought, __that's __sick._

Bodie considered him attentively.«Are you okay?»

«Yes.» Cowley snapped.

«You don't look it.»

«What d'you think? That the best I can wish for is to be roughly manhandled by a muscular lout?"

«You don't even think what you say,» was the dignified reply of a serene Bodie.

«You read minds now?»

«That's a survival skill.»

«What?» Cowley almost jumped, forgetting his disabilities, and choked. «What did you just say?»

Bodie frowned, looking perplexed. «OK, ok; I don't know where that came from, really. Whatever, it's not hard to guess what's in your mind now; all this stuff about my past, mercenary life and arms running... but see, you've to admit all my information comes from you.»

«I admit nothing of the sort,» grumbled Cowley, «I only grant you the benefit of the doubt.»

«Thank you so much. Couldn't be more gracious; I wonder why I don't actually manhandle you a little roughly.»

«Because you know where your true interests lie.»

The way back to the lodge was more of the same, except that Cowley managed to get a better hold on his gusts of unrequited lust. They still had to stop a few times and Bodie made a show of displaying the most exquisite gentleness and solicitude in his new role of caregiver.

He carefully laid down his live burden on the bunk and spread a plaid over him before setting about rekindling the fire in the hearth.

"It's hard and it's damp," grumbled Cowley.

"So I told you, didn't I?"

"Well, you were right."

"Glad to hear you say it for once." Bodie's voice was devoid of grudge. "You're wet and you're stiff; what you need first is a nice hot bath."

"In case you hadn't noticed, we're not in a 5-star hotel."

"I saw an old tub in the shed. It's rusted but, hopefully, not to the point of leaking."

"Don't bother; all I need is to call Angus."

"Is he a medic? He didn't say."

"No, just a living medical library, but he's perfectly able to perform first aid."

"So am I."

"If you don't mind, I'll rather rely on my cousin's skills and experience, which I've good reason to trust."

"As you please. But do you really want to subject yourself to your cousin's scrutiny in that pitiful state? You'll freak him out."

Cowley gulped at the sheer audacity of the words. However they gave him matter for reflection. He could easily figure how he'd look in another man's eyes: bruised, battered, rumpled, covered with mud, face and hands scratched from their harsh encounter with thorns and stones; the last thing he wished was to appear that defeated in front of Angus. No way though he was going to concede as much to the young rascal.

"Stop the insolence and get me the RT."

"I do, I do, Mister Bwana."

Cowley's glare would have frozen embers.

Talking with Angus a few minutes later, he briefly explained the situation, as reassuringly as he could (he didn't want to have Angus and Bart rushing down the steep forest path, at risk of breaking their old necks: one casualty a day was quite enough). With some extra information from Bodie, Angus agreed it was not a case of emergency and they would come after dinner, with a fresh batch of cookies from Martha and the first aid kit.

"There's one in the medicine cabinet."

"Too old; haven't replaced it in ages. I'll bring a new herb balm of my invention." "Would've been surprised if you hadn't," mumbled Cowley, off the mike. "In the meantime," Angus sounded more avuncular than ever, "have a rest, take a generous dose of my potion and..." he paused, "I remember there's this old tub in the tool shed, if it's not falling to pieces, I'd recommend you a long hot bath to relax your strained muscles."

Bodie sniggered impudently. Cowley suddenly felt too exhausted to fight back. In his current condition, the prospect of a hot bath was too appealing to be denied only for reasons of impropriety. He had suffered worse in his war time; besides, he and Bodie belonged to completely separate universes; it was not as if he would risk meeting the boy later in the circles he used to move in: at his club or on the golf links, among his old friends or colleagues.

"Happy to be right again? I just wanted to spare you the chore, but if you're so eager to serve, I won't discourage your budding vocation; I have to warn you my income doesn't allow me to employ a full-time butler."

With his usual efficiency, Bodie had brought the tub to the small bathroom, where there was barely room enough for it, and scrubbed it thoroughly in no time.

"Guess what? It's not rusted, just a tad dented and very dirty."

"No wonder, it's zinc; doesn't rust."

"Very solid stuff: soon, it will be good as new."

"So will I," Cowley replied, "good 'ole-time' quality!" He flashed his guest a pinched half-smile.

Bodie smiled back, visibly happy with the renewed cordiality between them.

"But now I'm filthy; need to wash myself. If you don't mind I'll have a quick shower first. I won't use much hot water."

Cowley heard him singing softly, not off-key this time, with a pleasant light baritone. He didn't know the tune but it seemed to him the words were German. Was he imagining things? Then the noise of running water from the tank muffled the sound of the voice.

A few minutes later Bodie was standing at his side, and all sensible thoughts fled his mind like a flight of frightened sparrows, leaving him dazed, gaping at the sight: save for a scanty made-up loincloth, loosely wrapped across his hips, the man was naked. Plainly, gloriously naked. The glow from the hearth cast a rosy shade on the pale, hairless skin of his broad chest; sleek and glossy skin, shining with droplets he was wiping off casually with another towel. There was hair on the long muscled legs though, and a thin line of black curls growing down from the navel to a lower spot, barely covered by the loose cloth. Cowley tried not to look at that hidden spot, not to think of that forbidden spot. And failed.

"Go get your dressing gown if you don't want to add pneumonia to amnesia."

"OK Granny!"

But when Bodie came back with the robe on, it was worse. The young man was leaning over him close, too close. And the ample garment, which lacked the tie, was wide open, letting him see lower, down the trail of pubic hair to the base of a notable bulge, distinctly outlined by the light material.

And, speaking of bulges...Cowley held his breath, feeling the heat of blood rushing to his nether parts, fearing the telling signs he would be unable to conceal once he had been stripped of his clothes. Breathing slowly didn't help. There was nothing to do but bite the bullet and wait for the flood in his rebellious flesh to recede.

Being better settled on the bunk than he was on the stony ground by the river, he managed to undress more or less on his own, with some help from Bodie to take off his shoes and pull his trousers off. In spite of the blazing fire, the residual dampness pervading the room gripped him. He shivered. Bodie wrapped him in the old plaid and the dust made him sneeze.

"You're catching a cold; we must hurry up with the bath now, the water was just at the right temperature two minutes ago."

"We? What do you mean with that '**we'**?"

"You need me to help you getting in the tub,"

"I don't need you any longer. Stop playing Florence Nightingale with me."

"Come on, you're in no condition to walk."

"Let me be the judge of it, would you?" Cowley stood up and took a step forward. His leg yielded and instinctively he clutched Bodie's arm. The other's move was too swift for him to resist: grabbed under the armpits and knees, he was lifted and carried to the bathroom before he could protest. A fierce sentiment of ridicule and resentment assailed him but did nothing to ease his physical discomfort. Once again he was overwhelmed by a surge of that revolting bout of craving for the man's male strength and dominance, a feeling he would never acknowledge, never mind willingly submit to it.

He was now seated on the lid of the toilet, under the slightly derisive scrutiny of his self-appointed minder. As infuriating as it was, there was no way he could get into the high-sided tub without help.

"Do you intend to keep your underwear on?"

"Aye; I do."

"That will be most inconvenient."

"And it's none of your business."

Bodie laughed. "Are you in the habit of bathing with your pants on?"

"Only when I'm forced to bathe in public."

"What public? It's just me."

"So what? Have you lost every sense of modesty? If you ever had any."

"Never with men."

Which was of course the core of the matter. Though, thinking of it, never before had he to take such precautions with other men, either in the inevitable promiscuity of the army or among his former colleagues and subordinates in the services...except in one case, and the need for modesty hadn't lasted much because..._Ach!_ s_top the nonsense_; that memory was anything but safe in his current predicament.

Eventually he took off his undershirt and kept his briefs on, wondering if this wasn't in itself a sufficiently incriminating evidence of his illicit yearnings. To his short-lived relief, Bodie seemed not to have noticed anything. Or was he pretending? He had conspicuously averted his gaze as Cowley was, rather awkwardly, trying to get out of his vest, and had stepped aside for the time it took, tactfully not offering to give him a hand, (or, it could be, repelled by the sight of an older man's narrow chest and slack flesh?). But then, he had taken hold of him from behind, grabbing him by the waist to lift him over the edge of the tub into the warm water.

For a moment, which was in the same time too brief and too long, Cowley had sensed those strong muscled arms circling his chest and hugging him tight; he had felt the man's bare skin pressing against his own bare back, felt the light rubbing of hard nipples on his ribs, the touch of rough fingers on his stomach and, lower, the tickling of soft curled hair on his loins, Light-headed, he had melted in the heat of the other's body, in its smell and moisture. It was an instant of sharp, searing bliss.

The contact of a sponge on the nape of his neck and the grip of a hand under his left arm brought him back to reality.

"Get off! What the heck are you doing?"

"Scraping the mud you've got in your hair."

"Damn it! Had I asked you to do anything?"

"Sorry; thought you needed the support: just a moment ago I had the impression you were fainting."

Cowley's heart skipped a beat. _He had noticed._

"You were wrong. Get off and give me the sponge. I may be bruised, but I'm not crippled. I'm still able to wash myself on my own."

"I'm not so sure. You just had a kind of dizzy spell; don't deny, I saw it."

"You were crushing me. Couldn't breathe. It's over now."

"Don't be unreasonable: the tub's narrow and your right arm is numb. I noticed when you were pulling off your vest."

_You notice too much_ thought Cowley. "Don't bother. I can manage."

"Eh! I can manage better! And I'm very good at back-rubs."

"And at being stubborn and cheeky?" He sighed.

Bodie took it as permission. He started lathering Cowley's back with the sponge, then went on massaging his reluctant patient's neck and shoulders.

Cowley's exasperation, by distracting him from the more physical focus, had slightly alleviated the painful tension he felt in the most sensitive of his body appendages. But not for long. The back-rub was straying to the front and he didn't find any acceptable reason to protest. The 'pants-on' bathing was ridiculous enough (and revealing enough) without playing the prude like a wee lassie trying to keep her swain at a safe distance while dancing at the village fair. Meanwhile the ill-placed blood pressure was becoming positively unbearable, bordering on sheer torture. And nobody is bound to stand torture when the good of the country is not at stake.

His only relief was knowing that, from his position behind, and thanks to the relative dimness of the bathroom, Bodie couldn't see much anything of what was going on under the surface of the water. But could he guess? It was difficult to believe the young man could be that innocent. As if to belie such a wishful thinking, unexpectedly a prying hand sneaked under the brim of Cowley's boxers, to spread more soap. He jumped, taut as a bow-string and rock-hard. "Stop that!"

Bodie's hand withdrew. "Sorry, your pants were in the way."

"I think I can get undressed without your assistance." Cowley said, icily. And Pete knows how difficult it is to speak icily when your blood is steaming and your crotch on the point of bursting.

"Don't you want...?" Bodie's voice was inviting but uncertain.

"I want to be left alone!"

"You still need me to help you climb out of the tub."

"Out! Now! Get away, for God's sake!"

"OK, I'll come back in ten minutes. You mustn't stay there too long; the water's getting cold."

Bodie skirted round the tub and stood in front of him, looking worried. He had got rid of the impeding dressing gown, probably from the start, and the loincloth towel had slipped down to the floor. No modesty, indeed. He was as naked as a new-born and near as chaste. To Cowley's final humiliation, he showed no sign of outward interest, other than a friendly, compassionate gaze. The beautiful Greek statue, worthy of Phidias' chisel, was cold and smooth as marble.

He left the room. Cowley took a deep breath. He had got ten minutes. Enough for a life-saving release. Not enough for purging his system from the deadly venom those last hours had instilled in his veins.

When Angus arrived two hours later, followed by his basket-carrying, ordinance-turned-servant companion, they found a bouncy and busy Bodie trying to cheer up a gloomy Cowley with offerings of food and drinks, which were impatiently pushed aside.

"We're just in time; Martha's baked two different pies especially for you, and heaps of cookies."

"We've eaten already." said Cowley curtly.

"Trifles," retorted Bodie, "Only some beans on toasts; you've hardly nibbled one."

"I'm not hungry."

"Speak for yourself; I can have a pie."

"You even can have both." Cowley sounded as disgruntled as he was, and he was in no mood to feign amiability; in no need either: Angus could never guess the real cause of his sourness. His current physical condition was reason enough for it.

"You not eating Martha's pies? I don't even want to hear the sound of such a sacrilegious utterance!"

Cowley cast him a scornful glare. There were times when he decidedly hated his cousin's studied cheerfulness. Then he noticed Bart's look of disappointment. At the moment, the old man's bearing showed his age and tiredness only too clearly, in spite of his pretense of enduring vigour.

"I may have a little bit of it... Eh, not so much, Bart! Thanks."

Eventually he ate half of everything. The day had been trying, to say the least, and the picnic on the boat at lunch time was not even a memory any longer. When Cowley asked for a dram of scotch, Angus reminded him of the herb-tea.

"To hell with your damned potion!"

"Oh, cousin! Such language!"

"The fault's on you; your crazy concoction spoils my sleep; that's the only effect I noticed."

"It's just transient; it may unsettle you a little the first days because it stimulates some specific brain's areas, but..."

"None of my brain's areas is in need of being stimulated, thanks. I accepted this only to convince your reluctant patient that we weren't attempting to poison him, remember."

"I'm convinced," interfered Bodie, "I rather like your potion; taste's weird but it makes me feel good."

Angus looked perplexed and, for once, opted for openness. "I must think more about it. I know the effects may vary a lot depending on the subjects' conditions but, honestly, I was expecting the reverse." He shook his head. "Don't worry, the results have always been positive in the long term."

"I feel great." Bodie said.

"I wish I could say as much," Cowley said, "I thought this medicine was supposed to have soothing effects?"

"It will have soon, after the equilibrating process's over. Don't stop the treatment, neither of you. This complex is also perfect to counter trauma and shocks."

"I'm not in shock and don't need any treatment, other than a dressing on my leg; on my two legs," Cowley added with resentment, "quite a simple and easy task."

Which Angus proceeded to perform. After assessing his cousin's wounds, he confirmed no bone had been broken and declared his ankle has been badly twisted, but not sprained, apparently.

"Just renew the herb balm morning and night and have a complete rest for two or three days; it will heal nicely and quickly."

"Hope so, we'd planned fishing for trout in the river; was ready to show your cousin I could beat him at it any time, anywhere."

"But not anyhow; I want nothing of your odd tricks, if you see what I mean?"

"Oh boys, think I must let you have fun together now, it's getting late."

Just as Angus was leaving, Cowley remembered the infected machete wound Bodie had brought back from Africa. He wasn't wearing a bandage any more but the flesh stitched by the surgeon less than four weeks ago couldn't have healed fully so fast and the scar on his back should still be quite tender. With belated remorse, Cowley realised how painful carrying a body his size and weight in a fireman lift should have felt to a wounded man.

In spite of Bodie's protests Angus checked the reddish spot on his upper back and found the scar clean and sound, though a little swollen and smarting.

"I've nothing at hand now to soothe the inflammation but we'll see tomorrow morning at the farm, right? He turned to Cowley:

"Really you should have told me the lad had been injuried not long ago."

Cowley bate his lip: "I should have, but I had a lot many other things in mind,"

Angus scoffed: "You truly are a selfish bastard, cousin!"

Which summed up pretty well what Cowley was thinking of himself in that instant.


	9. Chapter 9

Whether as a result of the potion or not, Cowley spent a second restless night, overcome this time, not by fading, harmless spooks, but by an endless stream of too vivid visions of naked bodies and alluring, sinewy limbs: long tanned legs, broad creamy chest and shoulders and, just in-between, the very centre of his worst temptation. He woke up moist and sticky. It was not just sweat.

He felt sick. It was the cusp of dawn and the loud warbling of mating birds outside kept him awake and tense. He didn't want to get up so early. He didn't want to get up at all. The day ahead would be long and fraught with pitfalls. He wondered if he would be able to get out of his bed on his own anyway. The idea of calling Bodie for help was abhorrent to him. And yet he would have to get up and walk to the bathroom, to wash himself. He felt dirty.

It was quite dim. The room was still lit by moonlight. Through the window he had a view on the flock of hills far away, their bulky rumps raising high over the loch. He caught sight of the curious shape of a ruined chapel, a black figure sharply outlined against the deep dark blue of the sky. It reminded him it was Sunday today. Either in London or in Scotland, he always tried to attend the Sunday service, every time it was possible. Praying used to give him peace and comfort. This time, it didn't seem to work. He wasn't fit to it: too strung up, disquiet, unclean. It was as if the rise of carnal passion had erected a wall, high and broad, disjointing his earthly being from the upper part of his... No, he wouldn't think about his soul at that moment.

Whatever; he needed to get clean; physically at least. And he had that old walking stick at hand, close to the bed post. He rose up and sat for a while, propped up by cushions against the bed-head.

A first tentative move told him his "bad" knee was functioning again. He'd had to avoid using his opposite foot but it seemed he could make, even so cautiously, the few steps he had to walk to get to the bathroom.

And then, he was under the hot spray of the shower at last, sitting on a stool that wasn't meant for that purpose and washing off from his skin all remnants of the night's abuses.

"What are you doing in here? Why didn't you call for me? You're hurting yourself again."

"Am I allowed to be left alone for ten minutes? Go back to bed!"

"**You** should be in your bed, Angus said..."

"Leave Angus out of this; he's not my doctor, nor is he yours."

"I have to take care of you while you're ill, I have."

"Fine, if you want to make you useful, go and fetch me a dressing gown; the one in the bathroom is damp." He anticipated Bodie's question: "There must be another one in the bedroom cupboard."

A suggestion he had reason to regret when he got back to his bedroom and saw the sheets had been changed. No way the lad could have not noticed...He froze, shrinking inside, his guts in knots. Shame, there was no other word: pure, unmitigated shame. This last blow was the shock he needed to recover, if not his dignity, at least his sanity. All his previous obsession with the young man's sinful appeal, seemed to vanish into thin air, leaving him cold and dry, back to his old self.

He suffered Bodie's attentions with an equal impassiveness, inward and outward. Yes, it was odd to see the other man kneeling in front of him to put a new bandage on his ankle while spreading a thick layer of the herb balm, but there was no longer the tease of that tingling in his groin, or the forewarning shivers along his spine. He felt safe now, in spite of the closeness of those keen eyes, straying from their task at floor level to focus on a higher spot, which was not his knee. He didn't want to see what was lurking behind those smiling eyes, not even to know whether the desire that had burned him had ever been shared, if only for the briefest moment, at some point during the whole drama. All of it had been a bad dream, and it was over. His concern ought to be for the future, the recovery of Bodie's lost memory, first and foremost.

He had some time to ponder the situation. Bodie had fixed breakfast, copious and fattening, as he liked it, then had left for a short call to the farm, just to have his own wound dressed and to take more specific medication from Angus. He was back for lunch. If he had had any words with the old man about the soon-to-come psychotherapy sessions, he didn't tell.

Cowley cut short a joyful babbling about cat-chasing dogs, an irate Martha and a stolen sausage.

"When are you starting your work with Angus?"

A cloud swept over the boyish face. "Not decided yet."

"How come? We talked of Monday; it's tomorrow."

"Seems Angus hasn't made his mind about exactly which programme he wants to use on me, yet."

"Curious; I've never found him uncertain or insecure about a decision he had to take before."

"He said you needed me to help you until you're able to walk safely."

_Ah__no!_"Nonsense. I can move well enough with the stick. And what could I do that would be so hazardous in this place, anyway?"

"A lot of things, actually. Besides the risk of falling, just walking, with or without a stick could be harmful to your knee, or to your ankle."

"Indoors, going from the living room to the kitchen or from the bedroom to the bathroom? That would be quite exerting, indeed!"

"Precisely; Angus knows you well; he told me I had to see that you took a proper rest."

Cowley snapped. "Leave it! Last time I needed a minder, I was still in my nappies."

Bodie laughed gaily. "Oooh! I can see you as a baby, and not in nappies, no: just out of your bath, all wet and naked, scrambling on all fours, or sprawled on a fur carpet, with your pretty plump and pinkie wee buttocks. What a picture!" He stopped, looking warily at his host. "Sorry, it was a joke; I didn't mean any offence." As Cowley wasn't replying, he hastily added: "Eh! Watch out; I don't know what to do in a case of apoplexy."

As a matter of fact, Cowley was unable to utter a word. Red in the face and turning to purple, he was visibly in dire danger of suffocation. "You've seen me wet and naked", he said at last when he had recovered his voice, speaking in a low, grim tone, "though not down to my buttocks and I'm quite aware the picture wasn't pretty."

Bodie seemed disconcerted. "What d'you mean? You don't look so bad, for a man your age."

Cowley exploded: "A man my age! What age do you think I am?"

"Don't know, fifty something?"

"I'm forty eight!"

Bodie had the good grace to show some embarrassment. "Well, fifty's not so far from the mark; I didn't say you looked old...Actually I think you're in a fairly good physical condition."

"For a man my age?"

"For somebody who hasn't undertaken any serious drill for a long time."

"Not for so long, but I'm not fit; thank you for reminding me of it."

"Ah, I see you're fishing for compliments: you won't get any from me. I simply reckon you seem to have had more muscle than you have now. I guess your bad knee is hampering you?"

"You guess right. And it's getting worse; I could end up a cripple some day."

"How dramatic! You'll have the appropriate surgery some day and you'll be fine, that's all."

Cowley didn't want to discuss his medical condition with the lad. How had he been led to get this far? "Whatever," he stated sternly; "I'm not crippled yet; I can manage on my own. Don't bother."

"It's no bother; I rather like being with you."

Cowley gasped. Once again he wondered how the quarrel had so quickly turned into a friendly chat. It wasn't easy to keep up grudges with Bodie!

Who was eyeing him, fetchingly, under his long shadowy lashes. No, it wasn't easy to stay cold and dry in front of the mischievous, manipulative little rascal.

Bodie was scanning him through and through. "You're not slack, just a tad out of shape." He winked. "We'll remedy it soon. What about that fishing party?"

The fishing party was scheduled for the next week-end. The weather forecast was as favourable as could be within the uncertainties of a Scottish spring: the mildest that had been recorded for some twenty years, if Bart's memory was to be trusted. Hopefully Cowley's ankle would be healed then.

Meanwhile the much bored and still baulking "patient" would have to get used to being taken care of by his "minder". Who seemed to enjoy the situation immensely. As disgruntled as he felt, Cowley was obliged to admit, though grudgingly, that Bodie was pretty good company for a disabled room-mate: even-tempered, helpful without being intrusive, cheerful and often amusingly witty, he almost managed to make him forget his predicament. The bouts of mindless lust hadn't come back (dreams didn't count, at least night-dreams, and day-dreams were easier to fight). He soon assumed he had overcome the temptation.

Time had passed fast. Eventually, on Wednesday, after two days of "Cowley-sitting", Bodie had undergone his first psychotherapy session with Angus; then a second and a third the two next days. With no apparent result. Angus had alternated free talking and attempts at hypnosis. "Attempt" was the right word, for very little had been achieved. The young man had appeared more agreeable to submit himself to hypnosis than expected but had been unable to let his mind-control loosen its grip.

"It's not unwillingness from him," explained Angus, "it's not even anything he's aware of: he was quite honestly trying to cooperate but it seems as if a force stronger than his clear consciousness prevents him from opening and disclosing his inner self. That was precisely what I feared and why I prescribed the potion, to help him release his deepest emotions. It didn't work."

"_Don't__feel__too__bad_," Cowley muttered to himself, voicelessly but bitterly, "i_t__worked__with__me,__beyond__all__expectation_."

Angus' thoughts had followed the same path. "However, the complex has proven to be effective: you told me your sleep was seriously disturbed; so I infer your basic emotional balance has been somehow upset."

"Thank you so much, cousin! You didn't warn me you needed me as a lab-rat."

"I must admit I was quite pleased to have you as a foil, if I dare say, in order to appraise the amplitude of the patient's reactions. Sure it's not methodologically legitimate to compare two different subjects with quite different backgrounds and conditions but, pragmatically... I deemed you to be a fair compass for emotional stability."

_You__'__ve__no__idea__how__far__from__the__truth__you__are__upon__this,__man._"And what about this wonderful soothing and equilibrating effect, so often alleged?"

"I told you it was the second phase of the process; it may be more or less delayed. And sometimes it requires a complement: another herb complex..."

"Ah, that's new! We really were your lab rats, I see."

"Not at all, what are you thinking, George? In accordance with the congruent deontology, the experimental protocol I followed..."

"Enough with thetechnical jargon, Angus!" Cowley growled, "Translate your spiel into English or, much better, give me your conclusions about Bodie's case. In a few words."

Angus knew when the play was over with Cowley. "In a few words, I'm pretty certain the lad was affected by the active components of the concoction as you were and, maybe, more than you, but his emotional defence system, which is deeper and stronger than I surmised, kicked in at once and forbade him to react or, even, to feel anything." He paused, expressively, between every syllable: "In fewer words: The. Man. Inside. Doesn't. Want. To. Recover. His. Memory."

This wasn't news to Cowley. "And that's all you've found throughout three two-hours sessions?" he taunted, his tone acerbic.

"Do you know more?"

"At least I know as much. I asked him that same question twice, and twice he answered along the lines of 'I'm not sure'".

"So he's got some awareness of it; that's good." Angus replied serenely. The scientist in him was immune to criticism from laymen. "I did find out a few points of interest by using the method of free association."

"Which are?"

"It's too early to assert anything with any degree of confidence but I can reasonably assume the father figure, either by its absence or, oppositely, by its omnipresence, is central in the subject's psychology, as is the problematic of authority and trust therein."

Cowley's reputation for fast thinking wasn't ill-founded. "I see you coming! Sorry, cousin, I have no vocation for surrogate fatherhood whatsoever."

"You want the end, you need the means. Seriously, George, what exactly do you think you have been doing in this affair from the start?"

"First and foremost, trying to mend MI6's blunders by helping a brain-damaged chap to recover; certainly not fostering a kid: that's a responsibility I always refused to take when I could; I'm not starting now."

"You may not have a choice."

"What?"

"It could be the lad is already viewing you as a father figure, if not as a surrogate father as you said yourself."

"But I don't see him as a son!" It was maddening. And no way he would tell Angus the real reasons why he couldn't possibly look at Bodie with a genuine fatherly gaze.

"Do you want to achieve anything? From all I found out that I can understand, the only path to Bodie's true self is through trust and love. Preferably from an older man, endowed with authority and power. Don't cringe. I'm not asking you to adopt him for good: You've just to behave in such a manner he would believe in you, in your unfaltering support and understanding. Angus winked: "You've not to be sincere, just convincing."

Cowley's voice sounded resigned and sad somehow. "Sometimes Angus, your cynicism is too much, even for me."

"Ta, ta, cousin; tell me about that fishing party."

"I feel I'm turning into a rabbit," Bodie complained when Cowley served him a consistent portion of mixed salad with his mushroom omelette.

"Did I protest when you inflicted me all those fried sausages, fried eggs and fried bacon? Not to mention your baked beans on toast and greasy roasties?"

"Yes, you did."

Cowley shrugged, Gallic style, and ostentatiously lifted his gaze to the ceiling. He had absolutely no pretence in the realm of fine cooking but was able to fix a decent meal when there was no other way to get it.

"Be happy I was willing to prepare your dinner while you were gallivanting about..."

"Gallivanting? I was in the shed, repairing the heater. And yesterday I fixed the boat engine. That's man's work and I need my sustenance. Your salad is not man's food."

"Sorry I offended your manliness. Mine is quite happy with omelette and salad." He couldn't help himself from glancing at the very manly figure in front of him.

"Sure: you were at complete rest for five days. I worked hard."

"Congratulations! You won the "Most helpful boy-scout of the month" award, no contest; I remind you I didn't command you to do anything. I'm perfectly content with the fireplace."

"The heater was nothing but the boat must be available if we want to go angling on the loch."

"So you changed your mind about fly-fishing?"

Bodie considered him for a moment, thoughtfully, his handsome face wearing an expression of worry mixed with exasperation.

"Fly-fishing? I suggest sky-diving! Come on, man: you still can hardly walk! Don't deny it; I observed you while you were shuttling between the kitchen and the dining table. I didn't know it was possible for a man to limp on **both** legs..."

A greatly exaggerated assessment, thought Cowley, as he walked down the path leading to the loch. The pretext for this evening stroll was to make some slight adaptations to the two brand new fishing rods, in keeping with the larger boat's built-in props. But the other reason, which neither of them had voiced, was to test Cowley's physical abilities. Which were not so diminished after all. His long rest had been quite beneficial: the pain in his knee had become almost negligible, rather lesser than usual actually, and he was now able to use his left foot, providing he didn't put too much weight on it.

He had chosen the shorter and steeper way. Bodie was following him, carrying the rods in their sheath and muttering between his teeth. "Damned old fool; you'll break your neck this time!"

"I'll show you what a grey-headed veteran like me can do while limping both legs!"

"Childish; at least let me go first, so you could hold on to me if you slip again."

"Not a bad idea; then I wouldn't feel your reproaching glare on the back of my neck."

"Wrong. I was looking at the bald spot at the top of your head. And you're not grey-haired!"

Cowley almost missed a step. That wasn't fair. He loathed any hint at his thinning hair. For a man whose only concern about his looks had been to see that he would always be neat and dressed properly in all circumstances, he was oddly sensitive to the subject. He had never thought of himself as handsome, had never been called so. The only compliments he had ever been awarded in that area had been for his shining, wavy hair (and still, the colour wasn't everybody's taste).

"Eh? Willing to shift from butler to hairdresser, now?

Always perceptive, Bodie had jumped by his side, grasping his elbow with his free hand to steady him lest he slid. "You want? I rather like your hair; it's got a nice shade, something uncommon, between sandy and ginger."

"With a bald spot."

"Oh, it's not big."

"Yet," completed Cowley gloomily.

"Don't be so self-conscious! You're not as bad-looking as you think."

"But I don't! What are you insinuating, young impertinent," he said lightly. He was lying. While his appearance was very seldom at the centre of his thoughts, there were times, and this was one of them, when he would be painfully aware of his deficiencies: with his shortish stature, his too narrow chest and shoulders and his wiry limbs, he could never pose as a model of male beauty. And this was especially flagrant in front of someone like Bodie. Though, as the lad had noticed earlier, he used to have more muscle and more bodily strength. And in his best days he would still be able to overpower younger men in several martial arts.

"Sorry for the phrasing; what I was meaning was you're rather a good-looking bloke on the whole, and not only 'for your age'".

"Thanks for the reassurance, sonny." Cowley's words were more sincere than their sarcastic tone would imply.

They were walking quietly together now, Bodie's arm around his waist, holding him firmly. To prevent him from stumbling or for any other reason he didn't want to dig up.

Waves of memories flowed over him, of people who had walked this path by his side in the past, of Doug and his pals, of Franny, brisk and lively as a lark, of his own few friends: of one of them, he had thought to be as close as his own skin, who had held him in the same way, though tighter, the week before they enlisted. Franny was now a strident and nosy hag; Doug and so many others never came back home; his mate had returned during a leave to marry a heavily pregnant eighteen year old lassie Cowley had never heard of, only to leave her a distressed and needy widow soon after. He had repressed his feeling of betrayal and helped. He still saw her son from time to time. But how he missed Doug...

Bodie's amused voice broke into his reverie. "A penny for your thoughts?"

"They're not worth more; just an old git's memories; people who were older than you are before you were born."

"And so what? That doesn't make you so old."

"Sometimes I feel I'm thousand years old."

"Me too. Either that or just feeling like a new-born. When I wake up in the morning, wondering who I am and what I'll be in a year, or in a month. Doesn't mean anything. And no, you don't look old. What's the matter with you today, fishing for compliments like that?" He stopped. "Speaking of fishing, we've arrived."

They were in front of the boat-house. They got in to check the boat's fitments and props, which were found to be perfectly fitting for the new rods. Something Cowley had always known.

"Standard equipment." Bodie considered him quizzically. "You could simply have told me you wanted to go walk the dog." He smiled: "I was wrong; you're sound and fit for duty."

"Another compliment? You spoil me."

They sat on a tree trunk at the fringe of the small sandy beach, far enough from the silt-reeking pier. The dusk was slowly setting down on the loch, veiling all things in drapes of blue mist. Bodie's arm weighed pleasantly on his shoulders. Cowley forgot whoever had crossed his path thirty years ago. He was here, and now, and with Bodie.


End file.
